


Fire, Walk with Me

by Khirsah



Series: Voice-verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Hawke deaths, I did not see Carver/Anders coming, Includes Art, M/M, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 230,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry.</p><p>Hawke is one of the lucky ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Malcolm

**Author's Note:**

> Interior art by the amazing Beccs_Art. Go check her out on [Tumblr](http://beccs-art.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Art in chapter 36 by the incredible (and incredibly sweet) Rabid Tanuki. Please go [check out her art](http://rabidtanuki.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Covers by the amazing Aud-works. Go check her out on [Tumblr](http://aud-works.tumblr.com/)!

  


“Through the darkness of future past,  
The magician longs to see  
Once chants out between two worlds:  
Fire, walk with me.”  
— **David Lynch** , Fire Walk with Me

There was a storm on the horizon.

He could feel the promise of electricity in the air. It made the hairs on his arms stand up, a rash of gooseflesh creeping over his skin. A cold wind blew, driving his robes against his legs. Strands of hair lifted about his face as they were pulled from his sloppily tied queue.

Maker, it felt good.

He loved lightning most of all. It called to him, the way none of the other elements did, sizzling over skin and bones with a touch that was almost sexual. It had been a long time since they’d seen a proper storm. The summer had been dry, and hot, fields wilting under the burning sun. The arl had let most of his hired hands go as money grew tight and food grew scarce. It was only by sheer luck and Leandra’s charm that the young Hawke family had been allowed to stay.

And now, on the heels of summer, came the first of the fall’s great storms. Within too few weeks, snow would blanket the rolling hills of Redcliffe.

 _Ah, Ferelden_ , Malcolm thought dryly, sighing at the cool touch of wind against his perpetually sunburned cheeks. _You piss on us again and again and yet we still stick around for more. What a bloody lot of masochists we are_.

There was a familiar step behind him and he tilted his head in welcome. His wide slash of a mouth twisted into a smile. “It’s going to rain tonight, love,” he said. “We’d better batten down the hatches and get the twins in bed or Carver’ll be squalling louder than the storm.”

When Leandra didn’t respond, Malcolm turned, curious. Her arms were crossed under her ample bosom and her brows were drawn together in a frown. Now that he was focusing, Malcolm could feel the discordant buzz of her anxiety through the bond they shared.

 _Uh-oh_ , he thought. “Whatever I did, I can assure you that I am _terribly_ sorry,” Malcolm said with his best charming grin, hoping to cut her off at the pass.

Her lips tightened in response. That was _not_ a good sign.

Leandra glanced over her shoulder toward the tiny cottage the five of them shared. She reached out to close the slatted gate behind her, then moved to his side. The wind picked up her dark, homespun skirts, making them billow and furl like a canvas sail about the straight line of her body. She was beautiful even after the birth of three children—of course, Malcolm was certain he’d find her beautiful after the birth of _thirty_ —with long curling brown hair and eyes the color of the stormclouds he loved.

He hated the feel of her worry, though. He hated the thought that he may have had a hand in it. Malcolm reached out impulsively to cup her soft cheeks, calloused thumbs brushing at the crows feet already creasing her skin. _Too young_ , he thought. _You’re too young to carry so much worry_. “Leandra,” he murmured, dropping his forehead against hers. He tried to soothe away the insistent thrum of her anxiety, closing his eyes and brushing his emotions over hers.

Her delicate hands closed over his wrists. “I found the lyrium,” Leandra said.

Malcolm froze, and guilt flashed between them before he could squash it.

“Two bottles,” she continued. She pulled back to watch him with lifted brows. He could practically taste her anger. “Hidden in your bag. When were you going to tell me?”

“Tonight,” he said, then, because she’d be able to _feel_ his lie, “I don’t know. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Soon, though.”

Leandra made a low, furious noise. She reached up to shove back her hair, but loose curls continued to coil about her delicate features, lifted by the breeze. The dark brown had streaks of silver that hadn’t been there just a year or two before. Malcolm knew his own black hair was going gray at the temples. Neither of them was old, but life on the run had a way of making them feel their years.

“Look, Leandra,” Malcolm began, but she flung up a hand to cut him off.

“No. No, _you_ look. You didn’t have the _right_ to take this step without speaking with me first. Aidan is my son, and he is _too young_ to follow you into the Fade.”

Malcolm set his jaw. “Aidan is eight years old,” he began.

“ _Exactly_. If he were in the Circle—”

He clenched his fists against an unexpected surge of power. Leandra pulled back in alarm as lightning forked between them before quickly dying away. Her eyes flew up to his, shock and worry clear on her face; it wasn’t like him to lose control. “If he were in the Circle,” Malcolm said, struggling to keep his emotions in check, “they would do everything in their power to _keep him_ from his Voice. The way they tried to keep me from finding you.”

The memory of that was…difficult. Too difficult to let himself dwell on it now. Malcolm swallowed as he tried to reel in his emotions, willing his powers to unruffle, his heart to slow. If he let himself think about what the Circle had tried to do to him, he’d… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. And Leandra certainly didn’t deserve to be at the center of it.

They’d been through so much together already, and with the first stirring of their son’s nascent powers, the promise of many more troubles to come stood on the horizon. Before they’d had the children, he’d never realized how scared fatherhood could make him. Now, it was an inescapable part of life. He was scared of taking his oldest son into the Fade before Aidan was ready, and risk losing him forever. Scared of not taking him soon enough and losing him just the same. Scared of letting him live his entire life without the chance to find his own Voice. Scared of Aidan being taken by the Chantry.

Malcolm blew out an unsteady breath and reached out to cup his wife’s cheeks again, deliberately opening the bond between them as wide as their bodies could stand to let her feel his conflicting emotions. To let her pour herself into him and him into her, no walls, no barriers.

She had to understand how important it was to not keep this from their son.

“He is eight years old,” Malcolm murmured. “He has shown potential for nearly a full year. If he is old enough to be stolen by the thrice-damned Circle, he is old enough to be taken into the Fade and shown exactly why he has to fight so hard to remain free.”

Leandra tipped her head toward his. In the far distance, he could feel the first crack of lightning. It pulled at his blood, made his body thrum. “I wish,” she murmured, gently capitulating.

Malcolm pressed his lips to her brow. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

They stayed like that for several endless minutes, coiled together body and mind. Her skirt buffeted around his legs as the wind gusted and her long curls flew about their faces. Malcolm strained to feel the next streak of lightning forking through the sky. He pressed his lips to his wife’s full mouth and let her taste the tang of ozone.

He didn’t pull away at the sound of the front door creaking open, but he cracked open an eye. Leandra’s lips curved into a bemused smile against his own.

Standing on the threshold, one hand curled around the knob, the other hanging tight to his tiny sister’s fingers, Aidan Hawke was a riot of messy curls and chubby cheeks and eyes as open and guileless as the summer sea. A few paces behind the two, sitting on a pile of furs and _already_ squalling, _bless_ , Carver waved his arms and shrieked.

“Hush,” Aidan said over his shoulder. “They’re being _gross_. We’re not supposed to interrupt when they’re being _gross_.”

Malcolm swallowed Leandra’s breathless laugh, letting the kiss linger before he pulled away. He tucked back her hair, sensing her fears fading to a manageable murmur. She didn’t like it, but she’d follow his lead in this. “Scar the children or go back inside?” he murmured.

She made a show of pretending to consider. “We can scar them later,” Leandra finally decided. “I know that particular cry. Thumb wrestle you for who gets to change Carver?” 

He quickly stepped back, spreading his arms wide. “Oh, I would be _honored_ , but I’m _really_ busy sensing the weather and planning my Fadewalk and being all…magey and…” He sighed at her narrowed gaze and shot a look toward his eldest. Aidan’s nose was wrinkled—though whether that was because of his parents or because his brother was beginning to stink up the main room, Malcolm couldn’t say—but he grinned when Malcolm waggled his brows at him. 

“Come on, Bethy,” he said, stooping to pick up his sister. He slid two fingers into her mouth and gamely let her gum on them. “I _guess_ we’re on our _own_.” Aidan suddenly brightened. “Plus side, that means we can make Carver into _stew_.”

“We have the strangest children,” Leandra mused. “I blame you.”

“I blame me too,” Malcolm agreed. He grinned, sudden and broad, not giving Leandra time to do more than sputter, “Oh, no, no, I _know_ that look, Malcolm Hawke!” before he swooped in with a whoop and lifted his bondmate, his Voice in the dark, his _everything_ over his shoulder. She shrieked a laugh, struggling, and he slapped a broad hand over her rump as he carried her back into the house.

The heady coils of her happiness threaded through him, as intoxicating as any storm.


	2. Aidan

Something was wrong.

Aidan sat near the fire with his little sister, letting her wrap him in colored string. Red loops crisscrossed his face and tangled in his mess of dark curls. One of his arms was pinned against his body, the other lifted to hold a ball of yarn for his captor. She’d managed to snarl a good quarter of the skein, and Bethany picked at it with clumsy fingers, frowning in fierce concentration.

She was too little to be able to get it all undone herself, but Mother said he had to let the twins try things on their own or they wouldn’t learn. So Aidan sat, half-strangled with string, and let his sister pull with growing frustration at the knots. The lull in their play gave him plenty of time to observe his parents.

And, yes—he was certain of it now— _something was wrong_.

He couldn’t say how he knew; he just did, sensing the tension on the air the way his father could feel an oncoming storm. Mother hummed a sad song to herself, Carver balanced on one hip as she cleared the table. Father sat in his chair, his satchel in his lap. One of his big hands was folded over the worn leather, calloused fingertips stroking the etching burned across its front. His brows were drawn together and he looked…fierce. Almost frightening.

Aidan shivered and shifted subtly closer to the fire. Usually when Father began to look like that, it meant it was time to move. Aidan didn’t _want_ to move. He liked Redcliffe. There were boys here he could play with, a few of them quite close to his own age. One of them lived up in the castle, and he kept promising he’d sneak Aidan in through the dungeons someday so they could explore together. He didn’t have any friends in the last village, or the city before that. Sometimes it felt like his parents didn’t want him to have anyone.

“No!” Bethany growled, pulling hard at the knotted skein. She’d managed to get one of her tiny fists caught up in the tangles, Aidan saw, red yarn tightening about her wrist. “No, no, no!”

“It’s okay, Bethy,” Aidan soothed. He balanced the ball of yarn on his knee and reached out to gently catch her flailing arm, thumb tickling the crease of her elbow. Bethany twisted, then laughed, squirming so hard she nearly toppled onto him.

Mother glanced over, lips curving into a strange, tearful smile. Carver glowered and waved a spoon at them. Father didn’t look up from his satchel.

Aidan’s heart gave a hard lurch; they were _definitely_ leaving Redcliffe. If not now, then soon, maybe after the winter.

 _Oh…bollocks_ , he thought, tugging Bethany into his lap and carefully freeing her arm. He was never going to see the inside of a real castle.

The strange tension in the air didn’t let up as the evening wore on and the twins were tucked in bed. If anything, it just got _worse_. Mother sat in her old rocking chair, carefully untangling then re-rolling the yarn Aidan and Bethany had knotted. Aidan stood by the washbasin and pretended to scrub his face, watching Father out of the corner of his eyes. Father hadn’t moved more than a few inches in the last few hours, not even when Carver began screaming over the threatening rumble of thunder. The candles had been blown out to save money, and he was far enough away from the fire that its light barely touched him. Only the forking lightning brightened his face, and that only in flashes—enough to make him look like a stranger.

A dark, serious, forbidding stranger, watching Aidan with piercing blue eyes.

Aidan jerked in surprise when he met his father’s gaze, nearly dropping the cake of lye soap. He caught it between slippery fingers, squeezing too tight before carefully setting it aside. The crash of thunder made his pulse race in that queer way it sometimes did. His magic, Father had told him once. It sounded much better than _fear_.

Father gripped his satchel and slowly stood, face lost in shadows again. At her place by the fire, Mother suddenly went very still.

 _They’re going to tell me_ , Aidan thought. Bits of soap trailed across his cheeks and down his chin, dripping into the basin. _They’re going to tell me I have to say goodbye to my friends and we’re going to leave again_.

“Aidan,” Father said in his low voice. There was no laughter in it now; Aidan’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. “Finish washing up and come to the table.”

He felt a quick lance of anger, of defiance; he wanted to _shout_ at them. _I’ve been careful_ , he wanted to yell. _I’ve lied for all of us. Why isn’t that enough_? Aidan bit his tongue, glancing over at the sleeping twins curled together like snakes in their cot. He _wanted_ to scream and stamp his feet, but he’d wake Bethy and Carver if he did that. He’d frighten them.

They were too young not to realize that moving so often wasn’t some sort of an adventure.

“Yes sir,” Aidan said, glaring down at his reflection in the basin. He splashed his hands in, shoulders going tight as he rinsed his face. He could feel his father’s footsteps as he crossed the small room to the table. His mother’s rocking chair creaked quietly. The air was so heavy he was almost choking on it.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot prick of tears and willed himself to swallow them back. Aidan splashed his face again and reached blindly for the rough cloth hanging on its hook on the wall. He scrubbed his face hard to disguise the tell-tale red about his eyes and nose; he even hung the cloth back on its hook neatly instead of dropping it on the basin’s rim like Mother hated.

Aidan didn’t look at Mother as he crossed over to the small round table, though he could feel her watching him. His father was already sitting there, waiting for him; Aidan pulled back a chair and climbed up next to him. He wore what he liked to think was his bravest face as he looked up to meet Father’s eyes.

And then everything sort of…fractured inside, bravery and anger and anxiety breaking apart in his skinny chest as he realized Father’s eyes were dark with fear.

“What’s wrong?” Aidan breathed, reaching out instinctively, the way he always did when someone was hurt. He couldn’t feel his parents’ bond—it was something special that only they shared; something that made them fit together like dovetailed wood—but he could feel… _something_ , sometimes, if he really concentrated. _Empathy_ , his mother liked to say. _The makings of a true healer_ , his father would claim.

He tangled his fingers in his father’s sleeve. Mother had turned her face away, one hand lifting to hide her eyes. Father covered Aidan’s fingers with his own huge, rough hand.

“There’s nothing wrong, Aidan,” he said. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

“Then I won’t be,” Aidan promised. He didn’t let go, eyes searching his father’s face.

Father squeezed his fingers, then reached for his satchel, which he’d laid on the worn tabletop. He slid one hand inside, searching blindly, and pulled out two bottles of potion. He set them between the two of them. Aidan glanced at them, confused. Elfroot?

“Are you sick?” he asked.

Father dropped his chin. “I am doing this all wrong.”

“Is Bethy sick? Am _I_ sick?” He tried to focus, frowning down at the table as he thought about how he’d been feeling lately. The dreams had been getting a little bad, and he’d skinned his knees something awful chasing Alistair across the docks, but other than that— “Is this about my magic?”

Mother stood and crossed the room quickly, moving toward the twins, her shoulders hunched forward. Aidan watched her go with a queer little twist in his heart. He _hated_ making her upset. “I’ve been keeping it coiled up inside, like you said,” he continued, turning back to his father. “And I’ve been practicing the exercises you’ve shown me. If this is why we have to leave Redcliffe, I promise I’ll— I’ll do it better. I’ll work harder. You’ll see. I just, I don’t want to—”

“Hush,” Father said, reaching out to cup the back of Aidan’s skull. Aidan went quiet, biting his lower lip. The tears were back again, hot against his lashes. He fought to hold them in, knowing they’d just upset Mother more. “Hush,” his father murmured again, even gentler. He ran his fingers through the messy snarl of black curls, then brushed a big thumb across Aidan’s cheek to smear away a tear. Father’s sunburned face was creased into a map of lines, eyes red; he looked, suddenly, very _old_. “We’re not moving anywhere. Not just now. But tonight, you and I are going into the Fade.”

Aidan dragged in an unsteady breath. It felt like his lungs had shrunk two sizes too small. “The…but don’t we go into the Fade every night?”

Father had been teaching him how to shield himself when he dreamed. He wasn’t strong enough in his magic to attract any demons yet, Father warned, but he would be very soon. It could happen all at once like a sudden wave, or in tiny steps like the twins learning how to walk. He wanted to be ready.

“Yes, but this is going to be different, Aidan. Tonight, we’re going to enter the Fade more fully than you’ve experienced before so we can find your Voice.”

 _Voice_. The word tolled like a bell through his small body, rippling through his limbs—he could hear his heart begin to pound. Aidan shivered and fought the urge to wrap around himself, staring at his father with widening eyes.

They were going to find his _Voice_.

“Do you know what that means, Aidan?”

He nodded slowly, jerkily. The Chantry said horrible things about a mage’s Voice, but Mother and Father told them the truth. It was a perfect connection. It was a soul-deep bond. It was the one person who always understood you, who always fought for you, who reflected back pieces of your own soul and magic like the sun and moon. If a mage found his Voice, Father had once said, no demon could ever touch him again. The Fade lost its threat and the Black City hovering at the edge of his vision bled Gold.

If enough mages were allowed to find their Voices, he’d said, perhaps they’d even be able to reach the city on the edge of in their dreams and heal the world of its blights.

Aidan licked his lips. “It means I’m going to find someone like Mother,” he said. “I’m going to find someone who loves me.”

Father looked over Aidan’s shoulder at that, and Aidan didn’t have to squirm around to know that Father and Mother had locked gazes across the room. He could always see it in his father’s face, whenever he looked at Mother—that indescribable change, like… Like a healing draught wiping away some terrible pain.

He was going to find that, too. He was going to find _his_ someone.

“Are we going now?” Aidan interrupted. He leaned on the lip of the table to study the vial closest to him, eager to begin. Now that he was looking closely, it didn’t _look_ like an elfroot potion. The glass was thicker, and viscous liquid a brilliant blue. “What is this?”

“That,” Father said, refocusing on Aidan, “is lyrium. Now pay attention—I’m going to tell you some very important things to remember about the Fade.”

The lesson lasted the better part of an hour. Aidan remained focused the entire time, listening carefully to his father’s instructions. They’d be taking the lyrium together. Father would be in the Fade with him, but Aidan wouldn’t be able to see him. He’d be fending off any demons drawn to the two of them, but Aidan had to be extra alert just in case any slipped through.

He wasn’t to talk to anyone. He wasn’t to make any promises. He was to remember that demons lied and that the things he was seeing were a twisted shadow of reality. He was to be careful of anyone trapped inside.

And as for his Voice…he would know it when he heard it.

“Do you remember everything I said?” Father’s expression was lost in shadow as he bent over Aidan’s bed, tucking him in. Everything was already going a bit blurry around the edges, as if he were falling asleep with his eyes wide open.

“I remember,” Aidan promised. He settled back against his pillow, drawing in a deep breath. The sweet scent of rain filled his lungs. Outside, thunder rumbled; it was a comforting sound. Father began to pull away, heading toward his own bed, but Aidan reached out to grab his hand. It was warm and rough against his own small fingers. “Father—how will I _know_ I’m hearing my Voice and not just another demon?”

His father leaned in, eyes as bright as the potion Aidan had choked down just minutes before. His other hand brushed back curling black hair, thumb rubbing lightly between Aidan’s brows. “How do you know I love you?”

Aidan drew his brows together; it was getting harder and harder to think clearly. “I… I just do,” he mumbled. “I can just tell. I _feel_ it.”

“Yes,” Father said. “You do.” He smiled a little, face going fuzzy in the darkness. Aidan closed his eyes and drew in an unsteady breath.

When he opened them again, he was…somewhere else.

The walls were a deep gray stone, pitted and obviously very old. Bits of mold grew along the creases, blackening the edges. He was laying on a bed of dirty hay; a slow, hollow _drip drip_ echoed around him.

Aidan sat up, frowning. This didn’t look like the Fade. This looked like some old dungeon. Alistair had told him all about the dungeons at Redcliffe; this could have easily been one of those cells. He scrambled to his feet, brushing off his hands. The bars were rusted and too small for him to fit more than an arm and shoulder through. He moved closer, reaching out to brush his fingers against the cold metal. Flakes of red-brown drifted to the ground like a corrupted snowfall. But when he pulled his hand away, the door creaked on its hinges.

Aidan glanced over his shoulder, then back at the door. He gave it a little push, delighted when it swung right open. The hallway was long and twisting and no cleaner than the cell. There were scores of other cells just like his own, most of them empty.

Not all of them, though. Aidan moved closer to the bars of the cell opposite his, staring solemnly into the darkness. The misshapen form was barely a body anymore, flesh wasted away to reveal brittle white bone. He’d been wearing robes like Father’s, Aidan saw, and a huge wooden staff was laid across his skeletal feet. The hood was pushed back just far enough for Aidan to see the skull; its features were twisted into a grimace.

Aidan wrapped his fingers around the cell bars, staring at the dead man. He wasn’t afraid—his father was out there, he knew, watching over him. But something about that heap of bone and old flesh and tattered cloth made him unaccountably _sad_.

 _This_ man had never gotten away.

“I’m sorry,” Aidan said quietly. It didn’t seem right to not acknowledge the man this corpse had once been. He stepped back, reluctantly letting go of the bars, and turned away.

Then, on impulse, Aidan turned back and pushed at the cell’s door. It, too, was unlocked, hinges protesting as it swung forward. “If you’re still there,” Aidan said to the ancient corpse, “the door’s open; you can go now.”

He didn’t wait around to see if the dead man took him up on the offer. Aidan moved down the hall, toward the steps leading up to the castle proper. There were torches at regular intervals, but the light seemed to be coming from all around. That more than anything was what kept reminding him he was in a dream.

He hurried up the steps, the sound of his feet against stone loud in the stillness. They seemed to go on forever. Every time he was sure he must be reaching the top, he’d pause and realize there were still two score more to go.

“All right,” Aidan huffed, pausing again. “If I’m going the wrong way, someone could just _say_ so.”

_“You aren’t my father!”_

Aidan jerked back at the sudden, muffled shout. It came from just beyond the door at the top of the stairs. He moved up another step, head cocking. His heart slowly began to pound. It was a boy, around his age. The accent was strongly Ferelden.

His Voice was a boy? For some reason, he’d been picturing someone like Mother, only younger. Aidan had to blink away the shock, trying to sort it all through even as he moved slowly toward the source. He…supposed that was all right. He’d never really thought about boys _like that_. Of course, he’d never really thought about girls _like that_ , either.

And he guessed he could see the advantages to having his Voice be male. They’d be able to fight ogres and hurlocks together. They could be _knights_! This could be _brilliant_.

Grinning suddenly, fiercely, Aidan hurried up the next few steps; he nearly stumbled when the voice spoke again.

_“You don’t really care about me. You just pretend like you do because you know you’re supposed to.”_

Aidan reached out to catch himself against the stone wall as he stared up at the door in horror. “ _Alistair_?” That… That was…

That was just _gross_. Alistair wasn’t allowed to be his Voice!

Aidan pulled back, making a face. The other boy was a little younger than him and his friend, true, but he was also, well. Annoying. And he kind of smelled funny. And he was always getting them into trouble. If _Alistair_ was the other half of his soul, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be complete.

_“There isn’t anyone here who cares at all, is there?”_

He sighed and rubbed at his brow, heart giving a reluctant lurch at those words. Alistair didn’t talk much about what it was like being raised at the castle, but he always seemed so very eager to hear about _Aidan’s_ home life. Aidan remembered sitting along the banks of the river with him once, making thoroughly disgusting mud pies and trying to explain what it was like to have obnoxious twin siblings and a mother who sung as she baked and a father who never thought you were too big or too old to sweep up onto his shoulders—all without giving away their family secret. It hadn’t been easy, walking that line, and he’d gotten angry enough to storm off, ignoring Alistair’s protests.

It all seemed very sad now. He wished he’d done a better job of explaining it, anyway.

“Oh, all right,” Aidan muttered, beginning to climb again. It wasn’t what he thought he’d wanted, but maybe it would be just as nice to be _needed_ by someone. This time, the stairs didn’t seem eager to stretch themselves out—he reached the top within seconds. The door swung open with a creak.

And he was somewhere else.

“What? Hey,” Aidan protested, turning in a circle. He was in a library, huge bookshelves towering over him. There was a statue at the end of a long table that groaned under a pile of books and papers. He could hear whispered voices beyond a door just around the strange, semi-circular curve of the room—giggles punctuated the conversation.

He cocked his head and moved toward the sound.

 _“—see what I can do,”_ another boy was saying. His accent was unfamiliar, thick and mealy, as if the common language wasn’t comfortable yet in his mouth. His singsong tone was a little like Alistair’s, oddly, when Alistair was being his most annoying.

Aidan snorted. He was sensing a theme already. He supposed he’d just have to get used to being soulbonded to an utter prat. There was a resounding crash and a ghostly chorus of laughs. They echoed all around him.

He was nearly at the door, reaching for the knob, when a heavy _clank_ of armor made him pause. The giggles stopped at once, transmutated into an anxious murmur that set his teeth on edge and made the hairs along his arms all stand up at once.

Out of the whispers came the strange boy’s voice, pitched higher in mingled fright and defiance. _“Knickerweasles—it’s the bloody Templars. Well, come on, you lot. Run!”_

_Templars._

Aidan staggered back, both hands lifted in an unconscious warding gesture. Was he— Oh, Maker, yes, he was in the _Circle_. He recognized the library his father had described to him, the heavy magical tomes lining the tall shelves, the magical buzz in the air. He hadn’t thought it was possible for two _mages_ to bond. He hadn’t thought to even ask.

Through the heavy door came the scrape of metal against metal. Whispery shouts echoed back to him, along with the steady pound of slippered feet, as if the mage children had scattered. He didn’t want to go through that door—he didn’t _want_ to face the Templars. They were the boogeymen of his childhood; they were the men who’d come and take his father away from him. The men who’d come and take _him_ away. He’d rather face a thousand demons that one Templar.

At least he could say no to a demon.

Aidan quaked, arms wrapping around his middle, suddenly, desperately cold. He squeezed his eyes shut, _hating_ the fact that he was here, hating that the boy with the strange voice was on the other side of that door, trapped.

Trapped.

His Voice was _trapped_.

He staggered forward, eyes flying open, and reached for the door. If that was his Voice, he wasn’t leaving him alone with the Templars. He wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_ —

Aidan stumbled through the doorway and into a courtyard.

The sun was shining down on him almost too bright to be believed. He had to squint against it, lifting one hand to shade his vision. There were orange trees here, planted in small groups of four and surrounded by elaborately carved benches. Flowers and strange herbs grew in orderly boxes about the gravel paths.

“Stop it,” Aidan said, balling his fists in frustration. First Alistair, then the boy in the Circle. The Fade was toying with him, showing him glimpses of possible lives before spiriting them away. “ _Stop it_!”

The explosion of ice ripped from his fingers in a glistening path. Crystals formed around every rock and blade of grass. Ripe oranges hanging low on dark branches flashed silver with cold. Aidan jerked back, startled by his own unexpected display of power. He’d never been able to do more than make a thin frost form over a bowl of water, but this—

The courtyard, once a near-tropic swelter, now glistened with frost. His breath floated white in front of his face.

And somewhere very close by, a boy was singing a lullaby.

Aidan turned instinctively toward the sound, shivering. There were huge windows at even intervals along the courtyard, each covered by strange screens cut into geometric shapes. The song was drifting from one of those rooms—lilting and low and melancholy.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight against the sudden prick of tears. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

Aidan couldn’t understand the words. Whatever they were, they were in another language—something so foreign he didn’t have the context to grasp what they could mean. But even though he couldn’t understand what was being said, he could read the emotion there, threading through each syllable.

Love and loss and fear and acceptance. The brittle toughness of a boy struggling to sound so very brave. He recognized that emotion easiest of all; he heard it in his own voice, sometimes, when he was trying to be strong for Bethy and Carver. When he was trying to _protect_ them.

Aidan drifted closer to a window, trusting his feet to take him where he needed to be. He reached out blindly, curling his fingers into the carved screen. His breath was caught in his chest, and it _hurt_. It hurt like nothing he had ever felt before, filling him up and up and up until he thought he might explode with it. It made him want to sink to his knees; it made him want to reach out. Defensive and protective, all at once, too confusing and too big and too _adult_ for his little boy heart to truly comprehend.

“Hello,” Aidan whispered, blinking open his eyes. He could barely see into the tiny room; it was too dark to make out more than shapes in the dim. A little boy, around his age, sitting beside an even smaller girl. The boy had his arm around the girl’s shoulders, his head tilted close as he whispered the song to her in a voice that should have been too young to know so much pain. “Please,” Aidan said. “Please—tell me where I can find you.”

The song continued, unbroken; the boy could not hear him.

But Aidan knew, deep in his gut the way his father had promised he would, that he’d be hearing this boy again, and again, and again—a voice in the darkness. A promise in the Fade.

He’d found his Voice.

And it was breaking his young heart.


	3. Alistair

“I’m done with my dinner. May I be excused?”

Alistair looked between the arl and arlessa, waiting (perhaps not-so) patiently to be acknowledged. They were sitting together at the head of the table, the arlessa nestled close to the arl’s right instead of all the way across from him at the foot. Sitting halfway down the table—where he _belonged_ —Alistair felt miles and miles away.

“I’m sorry? May I be excused?”

Nothing. He may as well have been in Antiva for all the attention they were paying him.

Alistair made a face, swinging his legs so that his heels drummed against the bottom rung of the chair. He folded his fancy linen napkin into elaborate shapes. He pushed his empty glass across the table and dragged his fingers through the ring of wine left in its wake. He jabbed his fork into the mushy remains of his meal. There wasn’t enough to properly play with (not that he _played_ with his food anymore; he was going on ten and definitely too old and mature for something like that), but the metal tines made a satisfying _scrape_ against the trencher. He smirked, smashing the last of his greens into a pulp, and dragged the edge of his fork through the mess.

_Scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape. Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech._

“Alistair!”

He looked up, startled. Both the arl and arlessa were watching him now, matching frowns on their faces. Alistair flushed and carefully set aside his fork, folding his hands demurely in his lap.

The arlessa sighed and rubbed lightly at her brow. She always did that when she was cross with him, and since she was _always_ cross with him, it was a wonder, Alistair thought, that she had any forehead left. “Why don’t you go to your room?” she said on a sigh.

“I—!” Alistair began to protest.

“Alistair,” the arl interrupted. “Go to your room.”

Alistair looked between them, stung. It was _hours_ yet before his bedtime. He wanted to go to the kennels to help feed the dogs! “But,” he tried.

The arlessa rubbed her brow again, harder this time. The arl reached out to rest a big, warm hand on her back.

Alistair slowly deflated. “Yes Serrah,” he muttered. He wriggled out of his chair and dropped lightly to his feet. He felt graceless and awkward as he straightened his third-best tunic (his best was reserved for feastdays and his second-best still had caked mud up the rear; eventually he’d have to fess up to that and see if anything could be done to get rid of the stain) and gave what he hoped passed for a courtly bow.

The arlessa looked away with a tight frown.

He straightened just a hair too fast for courtesy and hurried down the end of the table, past their grouped chairs and toward the open doorway. His eyes felt stupidly hot, itchy, almost as if he were about to cry. He wasn’t—he was too old for that—but it _felt_ close enough that he figured he should slip into a small niche beyond the dining hall just to be certain. The last thing he needed was for someone to carry tales to the boys down in the stables. They’d love any excuse they could get to make his life hell.

Alistair crowded back into the small niche, arms crossed around his middle. He hadn’t meant to make the arlessa angry. He never _meant_ to upset her at all. True, he no longer tried quite so hard to be liked, but that was only because she was so determined not to like him. Perfect behavior hadn’t won her over, so there was no point in being good all the time, he reasoned.

Still. The arl had liked him all right, once. Maybe not enough to really matter, but enough that Alistair didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells all the time back then.

 _I wish they’d bloody well just have a row with me_ , he thought, angrily picking at the hem of his tunic. He could hear them talking, soft voices drifting through the open doorway. The sound set his teeth on edge. _Just come out and tell me all the things I’m mucking up so I can apologize and set them to rights. Or tell them to sod off_.

That, he decided, would be _very_ satisfying. He had scores of angry words he’d never let himself say to either of them. He had a whole arsenal of hurtful things he _might_ have shouted if he was any less aware of just how… How _indebted_ he was.

Alistair scowled and scuffed his feet. That was the worst of it, he decided. Not that the arlessa didn’t like him. Not that she’d managed to poison the arl against him. Not that he didn’t truly belong here, or that even the lowest of the servants _knew_ he didn’t belong.

He owed them a debt for taking him in and keeping a roof over his head. And he supposed that debt would be enough to keep his mouth shut until the end of times came and wiped Redcliffe off the face of Ferelden, because unwanted bastard son or not, he had his honor and he knew his place.

As royally as it might suck.

Alistair rubbed at his face and slowly straightened. He was tempted to head down to the kennels anyway—neither the arl nor arlessa would check in to see if he’d obeyed their order—but instead he turned toward his room with a heavy heart. He shuffled past the doorway on his way, glancing inside offhandedly. The candlelight gleamed in the arlessa’s golden hair, making it shine like honey. The arl was turned toward her, expression serious.

Alistair heard his next words only by chance.

“…sure sending Alistair to the Chantry is the right thing?”

He froze, nearly past the doorway, muscles going tight in shock.

“I know why you hesitate.” The arlessa’s voice was so low, it barely reached him. “But we both know it is for the best. He has no future here—you said as much yourself. Within the Chantry, he can train to become a Templar. He can make something of himself.”

“A washed-out addict trapped in a prison.” The arl lifted his hands. “No, I am sorry—I did not mean that. You’re right, love. I know you’re right. It is only…he’s so _young_.”

She placed a hand on his arm. Alistair couldn’t see her face, but he could picture it so clearly. Beautiful, stern, brows knit together in that way she had. “He is not nearly as young as he seems. Alistair is immature for his age. Templar training will correct that as well. It will make a _man_ out of him, a man anyone could be proud of.”

The arl, Alistair noted in a strange, floaty, detached way, didn’t argue with that. “When?”

“Soon,” the arlessa said. “It should be soon. By his next nameday, I would think.”

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut as he dragged in a long, unsteady breath. He reached out blindly, fingers sliding across the stone wall as he moved from the doorway—from the arl and arlessa planning to _send him away_. It didn’t seem _fair_. He’d tried, he’d tried so _hard_ to be everything they’d asked of him. And now, Maker, he was to be packed off to the Chantry to become a Templar without a moment’s breath to wonder what he might want for his own life.

He pressed his palms against the cold stone and rested his forehead between them. His chest felt queerly tight, as if an ogre had punched its meaty fist inside the shell of his ribcage and was squeezing his heart. His eyes _burned_ now, tears hot on his lashes, and he wanted to storm back into the dining hall and _howl_ at them.

“I hate them,” Alistair whispered. “I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.”

Alistair drew in an unsteady breath, then another, before pushing himself back. He needed to get out of the castle. He just…he just needed to.

He spun on his heel and hurried down the hall, taking a sharp left through another set of doors, then out of the next room and toward the door to the courtyard, thoughts and emotions tumbling through him like one of Redcliffe’s waterfalls.

He felt…

He had no idea what he felt. Afraid, maybe. Angry. In desperate need of a friend.

It was long past dusk, sky over Redcliffe castle deepening to inky violet as Alistair tore through the courtyard. He slipped out of the main gate and past the guards, ignoring their curious hails. His feet skidded on loose earth as he hurried down the winding path to the village below, making his way across bridges and through well-worn paths blindly. The village was spread out below him as he crested the great hill, lights shining in thatched cottages and glittering off the lake like a thousand brilliant gems.

Across the main valley, well past the Chantry and the blacksmith, nestled in the furthest reaches of the town, the Hawke family home seemed to glow with welcoming light. Alistair’s eyes drifted toward it instinctively as he picked his way down the hill in the darkness.

Aidan wasn’t his only friend in the village, but it was a close thing—and beyond that, Aidan was quite easily the _best_ of all his friends. He smart and _funny_ without being cruel. When Alistair made a stupid joke, he didn’t roll his eyes or cuff him about the ears or laugh _at_ him the way others may have. Instead, he just smiled at him with an encouraging tilt of his head, grey eyes too old, too knowing, for his round-cheeked face.

It was eerie, sometimes, looking up to find Aidan watching him with those unnaturally mature eyes. But then a crooked grin would break across his face and they’d be throwing bits of mud at each other or roaring as they pretended to be dragons, and Aidan would be just a boy again.

Until the next stretch of silence came to find Aidan looking across the water with a wistful earnestness that sometimes made Alistair’s chest ache in response.

Maybe some of that strange maturity would come in handy now, Alistair mused, nearly skidding down the last sloping path and into the town proper. He shifted into a run, wind whipping through his hair as he hurried past villagers doing…whatever it was villagers did this time of evening. He hooked a left, darting around the blacksmith with a hurried, “Pardon, sorry!” and ignored the man’s annoyed grumble.

It would be good to have Aidan tell him what to do.

The Hawke cottage was small, even by Redcliffe standards. It was too small, likely, for a family of five, with only the main room and a tiny curtained-off copse just big enough for Aidan’s parents to sleep away from Aidan and the four-year-old twins. It could have easily fit within the walls of Redcliffe castle a hundred times over—more—but it was always so full of life that Alistair thought it must have been the best place in the world. Light was spilling from the windows from the crackling fire, casting dancing shadows through the open door. He could hear hushed voices inside, and the muffled scrape of something heavy being shifted. Aidan’s father passed by the nearest window, face drawn in a map of worried lines.

Something, Alistair realized as he slowed to a jog, was wrong.

“Quietly,” he heard Aidan’s mother murmur. “Don’t wake him if you can help it. I’ve made a little nest for Bethany and Carver in the back of the wagon.”

The _wagon_. Alistair moved slowly closer, and sure enough, he could just spot the Hawke’s old wagon a little ways down the path. It was hitched and waiting, horses whickering quietly in the darkness.

He turned back to look at the house, confused—and a little frightened—when Malcolm Hawke stepped outside. “Don’t forget the,” Aidan’s father was saying, but he stopped when he spotted Alistair. There was a staff in his hand, big and gnarled and well-worn. It looked like the staves the Circle mages used to channel their magic, but that was impossible. Aidan’s father wasn’t a Circle mage; mages didn’t _have_ families. Everyone knew that. Only illegal apostates ever had—

Only—

 _Oh_ , Alistair thought, eyes going huge. _Oh. Oh. Oh_.

“Malcolm?” Leandra stepped from behind her husband, Bethany curled sleeping in her arms. She gasped when she spotted Alistair. One hand lifted instinctively to cover her mouth, her eyes going wide in alarm.

“Go inside, Leandra,” Malcolm said. His voice was low and very still. “And shut the door.”

 _I should run_ , Alistair thought. He shifted, tensing when Malcolm lifted his staff. His heart was jackrabbiting in his skinny chest. _I should run right now_.

“Malcolm,” Leandra protested, face crumpling. Within the careful circle of her arms, Bethany made a low noise of protest, stirring.

“Father, take Carver.”

Both of Aidan’s parents turned as their oldest son gently pushed through, his brother in his arms. Carver was sleeping fitfully, one fist curled under his chin. Aidan had him braced against his skinny hip, arms wrapped protectively around him. Alistair watched as Aidan soothed a hand up and down Carver’s spine, comforting him as he slept.

“Aidan, Leandra—get inside.”

“No.” Aidan turned and pressed his brother into his father’s arms, forcing him to lower his staff. _This would be a great time to run_ , Alistair told himself, but he remained rooted to the spot, transfixed. Aidan’s father was an apostate. An honest-to-Maker apostate. And they were on the run from…what? What had happened? “It’s okay, Father,” Aidan promised. “I trust Alistair. He’s not going to tell anyone we’re going.”

Malcolm hesitated, even as he lifted the drowsily protesting Carver into his arms. He looked at Alistair with uncanny blue eyes (how had he never noticed how unnaturally bright a blue Malcolm Hawke’s eyes were?) before nodding sharply. “Very well,” he said, moving to the wagon. His wife followed, Bethany in her arms, glancing over her shoulder with a worried frown.

Aidan watched them go silently for a long minute before turning back to Alistair.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” Alistair said, for want of anything better.

“Come on. They’ll be listening unless we get away from the house.” Aidan tipped his head toward a nearby slope—where they’d played knights more than once—and they fell into step together. The moon was a crescent, just bright enough to reflect off the lake. Redcliffe castle loomed like a high dragon over them. “We never did get to sneak into the castle,” Aidan said.

Alistair swallowed. He’d been thinking the exact same thing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish we could have. You would have liked it. So, um, are you…?”

“Yeah. We have to.” Aidan sank down onto the grass, tipping his chin to watch as Alistair hesitated. The wind ruffled his dark riot of curls. “There have been new Templars coming to the Chantry, and Father thinks they’re here for a reason.”

“Your father…he’s a mage, isn’t he? An, um. An apostate?” The word felt heavy on his tongue.

Aidan’s eyes were very serious even as one corner of his mouth twisted into a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “And so am I.”

Alistair slowly sank next to him, legs too unsteady to hold him. “Oh,” he said.

Neither of them said anything for what felt like a long time. Alistair toyed with the hem of his tunic, fingers picking at a fraying thread as he pretended not to stare at Aidan. Aidan, for his part, was looking across Redcliffe village with that look in his eyes again—that quiet, mature, almost melancholy look, as if he’d already seen too much at the age of ten.

Alistair supposed being hated by the Maker would do that to you.

Alistair couldn’t _imagine_ the Maker hating someone like Aidan.

“Would you ever use magic to hurt someone?” Alistair finally blurted.

Aidan tilted his head. “Yes,” he said. “But only if I didn’t have any other choice.”

“Would you take up with a demon?”

“Not even if there _were_ no other choices.”

He’d suspected as much, but still, the firm vehemence was good to hear. “I’m going to be a Templar, you know,” Alistair admitted. “At least,” he added when Aidan turned to look at him with a startled noise, “the arl and arlessa plan to send me away to the Chantry to train to be a Templar. They didn’t ask me if it’s what I wanted.”

“Is it what you want?” 

Alistair shrugged his shoulders, looking down. Aidan was watching him with steady, unblinking blue-grey eyes. “I dunno. No,” he said. “I don’t. But I can’t stay here, either. Did you…want to be a, um. You know?”

Aidan plucked a blade of grass and flicked it at Alistair’s face. “A mage? No. But now that I am—I guess now that I know what it means—I wouldn’t want to be anything else.”

Alistair looked up, struggling not to let the sheer weight of his confusion and fear—for his friend, he was realizing, not of him—show. “But. _Why_?”

Aidan curled his long legs up under him and rested his elbows on his knees. The wind created a wild halo of black curls about his face. He was silent for so long that Alistair thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally Aidan sighed and ducked his head. “There’s a boy, out there,” Aidan said slowly. “He’s a slave somewhere very far away. He’s angry a lot, and he’s scared, and sometimes he cries at night when he thinks no one can hear him. I can hear him, though. I hear him all the time, even though he doesn’t know I’m there.”

“And?” Alistair murmured, confused.

Aidan tipped his chin to look at him. “And I keep thinking, if I’m strong enough, maybe someday I’ll be able to find him and I won’t have to just listen, and he’ll know he didn’t go through it all alone, you know? I wouldn’t be able to do that if I weren’t a mage. I wouldn’t know he was there at all.” He smiled suddenly, crookedly. “Maybe someday another mage will come find _you_ and say the same.”

“Hopefully not some scrawny _boy_ ,” Alistair said. His heart gave a bizarre lurch at the thought, though, of some unknown girl out in the darkness, watching over him. It was a nice thought. It made him feel less alone in his own skin.

“Nah,” Aidan agreed. “Though count your blessings, because I think it was a near miss.” He didn’t explain that, but then, Alistair was used to Aidan being a little mysterious sometimes, the utter ponce. Instead Aidan stood, dusting off his hands, and reached to help Alistair to his feet. “So I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

Aidan lightly pushed Alistair’s shoulder. “Promise you’ll be a nice Templar?” he said. “If that’s what you turn out being?”

“Only if you promise not to be a blood mage or anything.”

“ _Deal_. Um. So, don’t be offended, but if you are going to be a Templar, I really hope my Father and I never see you again.”

Bizarrely—and what, Alistair thought, about this night wasn’t turning out to be bizarre?—that made him laugh. “Yeah, well, with all that armor, I’m pretty sure you’ll hear me coming!”

Aidan grinned sunnily and they stood there, looking at each other. Silence stretched and grew on this last goodbye. He wouldn’t tell anyone the Hawke family was fleeing Redcliffe, Alistair knew. He still wasn’t sure what he thought about his best friend being an apostate—the Chantry was pretty clear on where it stood on those—but he knew he wouldn’t turn on Aidan that way. He couldn’t.

“Sooo,” Alistair said.

“I’m pretty sure this is where I hug you,” Aidan said.

Alistair pulled back sharply, both hands lifting in an automatic warding gesture. Aidan burst into laughter. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s kind of what I was thinking. Live well, Alistair.”

“Um, yeah. You too. With the living well.”

Aidan gave a little wave and turned, trotting back toward his house. His former house, Alistair guessed. Alistair watched him go, then sighed and sank back down onto the slope. He’d stay here, he figured, until the Hawke family was gone. It’d probably make Aidan’s parents feel better to be able to _see_ that he hadn’t run off to tell anyone about them as they finished packing up and left.

He scuffed his foot against the soft dirt, trying not to feel sorry for himself. It had been a hell of a night—finding out he was being packed off to the Chantry _and_ discovering his best friend was an illegal mage, all at once.

At least, Alistair thought glumly, they were both leaving Redcliffe right around the same time. It wasn’t a very good silver lining, but he supposed it would have to do. He tipped his chin up to watch the stars, listening to soft whispers, then a whinny of a horse, then the rumble of a wagon beginning to move. He didn’t turn to head to look, arms wrapping tight around his shins as he drew up his legs. The cool wind ruffled his own blond hair.

Tonight, Alistair figured, he’d be dreaming about whatever unknown future lay ahead of him. He wondered whether there’d be some mage girl quietly listening in and understanding.


	4. Carver

It was storming out.

He _hated_ when it was storming out.

Carver sat by the window, glowering up at the rainclouds as if he could chase them away with the sheer power of his bad mood. Everyone else was in fine spirits—but then, everyone else in his whole family was _utterly barking mad_ , so that didn’t count for much, did it?

He shifted irritably, clutching the hilt of his little wooden sword. Thunder rumbled in answer.

“Beautiful,” Father said. He was standing in the open doorway, grinning every time the lightning forked.

“You’re going to catch cold again,” Mother sighed, but she moved to stand behind him. Carver watched as she wrapped her arms around Father’s middle and pressed her forehead between his shoulderblades. Father’s hands dropped to cover hers where they rested at his waist. In his big, calloused, capable hands, Mother’s looked so small and delicate. It made him deeply uncomfortable to see.

Of course, he was almost seven now. Everything made him deeply uncomfortable.

“Tell me about your latest dream,” Bethany pleaded. She was near the fire with Aidan, sitting utterly still as he carefully untangled her hair. The moisture in the air made her puff out like a tangled ball of yarn, dark hair half curling and half straight. “What was happening? Did you hear him speak? What did he say? Was it beautiful? Have you figured out his name yet?”

Carver wrinkled his nose and whacked his sword against the leg of his chair. All Bethany ever wanted to talk about was Aidan’s stupid Voice. She thought it was so romaaaaaaaaaaantic, blech. He’d caught her pretending she had a Voice of her own, oh, gobs of times, even though neither of them were old enough to show much in the way of magic.

Aidan grinned and wrapped a long curl around his finger, tugging gently, making her giggle. “We were in the garden again,” he said. He never let pass a chance to go on about his Voice. “Near the orange grove. I could smell the oranges ripening in the heat. There was a faint breeze, which felt so good. The heat’s the worst of it, Bethy—the sun is so low and heavy and bright in the sky, you’d almost swear it was going to swoop in and gobble you up.”

“ _You’d almost swear it was going to swoop in and gobble you up_ ,” Carver mimicked in a high falsetto, though quiet enough that Aidan and Bethany couldn’t hear. Mother heard, however, and the look she shot him made him slump in his chair and irritably kick his feet.

Stupid Aidan. Stupid Voice. Stupid rain.

“He was somewhere further in the garden. I could hear him and the others working. One of them was humming some song. I’d heard it before, maybe five months ago? I think it’s something they sing sometimes, to try to make the work pass faster.”

“It must be horrible to be a slave,” Bethany sighed.

“It is. I hate it. I hate watching it. I hate feeling it. I hate knowing it’s still happening even when I open my eyes.”

Mother made a soft noise. Father’s grip on her hands tightened.

Aidan carefully pushed aside a hank of Bethany’s hair and started detangling the next quadrant. “But that isn’t what you wanted to hear. You wanted to hear more about Leto. That’s his name, you know. At least, I think it is. One of the older men called it, and he answered.”

Bethany squirmed to look over her shoulders, eyes widening appreciatively. “Ooh, Leto. What a pretty name. Aidan and Leto.”

Carver rolled his eyes. _Aidan and Leto_ , ugh, _gag_. When _he_ became a mage and found his Voice, he wasn’t going to sigh and moon and be stupid about them all the time. And he definitely wasn’t going to have some _boy_ who lived so far away there almost wasn’t a point to having the Voice at all.

No, he’d have someone nice and practical and Ferelden. Some nice girl who knew how to make pastys like Mother did, with nice flaking crust and a bubbling hot inside and crimped edges you could hold on to while the rest of it cooled.

His stomach grumbled. Aidan continued recounting his dream to his captive audience of one. Mother and Father stood together, his hands clasped over hers, her face against his shoulder—strong and eternal as a mountain.

Outside, lightning forked and thunder rumbled in warning.


	5. Leandra

There were nights when she regretted running away with Malcolm Hawke.

This was one of them.

The tiny cottage was quiet, fire banked so low all she could see was shadows. She sat in her rocking chair, forgotten mending laid across her lap, workbasket at her feet. She’d been letting out one of Bethany’s old dresses; her baby girl had sprung up like a weed this last spring and none of her clothes fit anymore. Carver hadn’t yet hit his first major growth, but the promise of it was there in his big feet and awkwardly long arms, and Aidan—Aidan was fourteen now. He was almost a man.

Leandra sighed and rubbed her brow. She was bone-tired and twisted into anxious knots. It felt like she hadn’t slept in days—not since Malcolm had taken her hand across the kitchen table and murmured, expression serious, “I have to take her into the Fade soon. It’s only right.”

She hadn’t even been able to protest. Bethany had been showing signs of magic for over a year now. First Aidan and now Bethany. Maker preserve her, were all of her children going to be claimed by magic?

 _You brought this on yourself_ , Leandra thought. _You knew this could happen_. And yet…had she really? When Malcolm had taken her young hand in his and murmured _“Run away with me,”_ had she _really_ known what it all could mean? A lifetime spent fleeing from this town to that. Raising children in a constant state of flux. Watching as one after the other grew into powers that still frightened her no matter how hard she tried to understand. Knowing that if the Templars ever did come, three-fourths of her heart would be in ruins. Some nights, it was just…too much.

She closed her eyes and quietly let herself unravel.

Leandra had no idea how long had passed before a soft hand touched her shoulder. She jerked up, startled, then relaxed when she met Aidan’s gray-blue eyes. He was standing in his bare feet, blanket wrapped around his middle so it trailed behind him like a robe.

“You should be in bed,” Leandra murmured, careful to keep her voice low. They’d been able to afford a two-room cottage this time, but there was no door separating them from the sleeping quarters where Malcolm and Bethany were dream-walking. “It’s very late.”

“I think it’s closer to _very early_ ,” Aidan said. He glanced over his shoulder, then hefted up his blanket until it was looped in the crook of his elbows. “May I sit with you? Would you like some tea?”

She should say no. She should send him back to bed.

Leandra sighed and folded Bethany’s dress, setting it aside. “Tea would be lovely,” she said.

Aidan offered her a crooked smile. He snagged the kettle and peered inside before hooking it over the banked fire. Leandra watched, chin propped on her fist, as Aidan spread his hands across the faintly glowing wood. The orange deepened into a darker red, spreading across the blackened logs. A spark popped, then another, as flames began licking up toward her son’s hands.

 _He’s a natural_ , Malcolm had said proudly more than once. Her heart gave a funny little twist.

Aidan sat back on his heels as the fire roared to life, carefully dusting off his hands as if to shake away any lingering sparks. A dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. “It beats rubbing two sticks together and hoping for the best,” Aidan said.

Leandra smiled back, as she knew he wanted. “You’re getting very good at that.”

“I’m still rubbish with lightning. Some days I’m sure Father’ll disown me. She’s going to be okay, you know,” he added as he reached for the iron poker. “Her magic is still too quiet for the demons to take much notice.”

 _The demons_. Her only daughter had a whole lifetime of shielding herself from demons to look forward to.

“Yes, well,” Leandra said.

“Bethy’s strong.”

Leandra curled her hands into impotent fists. “She’s strong,” she agreed, nails digging into her palms. “She’s very strong.”

He tipped his chin to glance at her out of the corner of his eyes, dark lashes flickering. “She wouldn’t want you to be so afraid.”

“It is a shame there isn’t a magic incantation or potion to dispel a mother’s fear,” Leandra said. The words came out more bitter than she had intended, and she sighed, rubbing at her face. “I’m sorry, my darling. I am very tired.”

“It’s all right. As luck would have it, I’ve developed a concoction that _does_ dispel fear.”

She glanced up, brows arching, but Aidan had already turned away. He was crushing tea leaves into a fine-woven satchel, making a show of hemming and hawing over bits of dried fruit or flowers kept in a row of tiny canisters. “Hm, yes,” he said, crumbling petals between his fingers. A fine violet ash drifted into the satchel, followed by a handful of wizened berries. 

Leandra watched, bemused, as her son tightly closed the ends of the satchel and waved his hand grandly over it. “Is that part of the spell?” she asked.

He held up an imposing finger. “You must never interrupt a mage when he is communing with the Fade,” he said gravely, but his bright eyes danced when they cut toward her.

She laughed quietly and sat back in the rocking chair, letting herself be diverted. “No, of course not,” she agreed, folding her hands together. She rocked quietly, watching as her eldest child prepared a second satchel, laying each in a waiting teacup. He used the iron hook to lift the piping hot kettle from the fire, deftly pouring water before replacing it.

The rich, comforting scent of seeping tea leaves surrounded her. Outside, the first hint of dawn touched the sky. This latest village was high in the mountains, so small that only a single Chantry brother looked after his flock. She could see the growing light stretching across the lake just beyond their home toward the Brother’s tiny cottage. Beyond it lay the other two dozen or so homes belonging to villagers who hadn’t yet come to embrace the small Hawke family.

Maybe they never would. Maybe they’d have to pick up stakes and move again. Maybe, Leandra thought, strength beginning to return to her, it would even be for the best. They had each other; what more did they need?

“Tada,” Aidan said, drawing her attention back to him. He’d sweetened her tea with a bit of honey. He’d even taken time to sift out the bits of leaves that had escaped the satchel, she noticed. He handed over her teacup with a grand gesture, as if he really _were_ casting some newly discovered spell. “Once you take your first sip, your fear will be gone,” he said.

Leandra obediently cupped her hands around the warm mug and took a sip. The familiar, homey taste was better than any fine wine her own parents had ever served. “You know,” she said, lips curving at the edges, “I do believe you’re right. Thank you, serrah Hawke; you are truly a genius.”

Aidan grinned up at her, folding his long legs comfortably under him. He took a sip of his own tea, watching her from beneath his lashes. “Hm. Well, it’s not one of Carver’s jigs, but I guess it’ll do.”

She snorted a laugh and quickly covered her mouth, glancing toward the bedroom. No one stirred. “You become more and more like your father every day,” Leandra tutted.

“What was _your_ father like? If you don’t mind talking about him,” he added quickly.

She was surprised to realize she didn’t. That hadn’t always been the case—there had been several years of bad blood there, after they had turned her out of their home. “He was a very strong man,” she said slowly, taking another sip of her tea. “A good man, much of the time. He could be hard on all of us—hardest on my brother, Gamlen—but it was only because he wanted the best for us and for the family legacy.”

“And when Father came and said you were his Voice?”

“When your father told him I was his Voice… Maker, I had never seen him so angry. He dragged me away from the Viscount’s home all the way back to my room. He didn’t say a word—he just pushed me in and locked me inside, as if he could keep me from your father by pure force.” 

She looked down into her tea, seeing firelight and her own reflection shimmering there. “How I hated him then,” Leandra murmured. “But now, I suppose some part of me understands. He was just trying to protect me the best way he knew how.”

Aidan shifted to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands, curled around his own mug, seemed very small suddenly, as if she were seeing the boy he used to be rather than the young man he was becoming. “Is that how you feel sometimes?” Aidan murmured, not looking up. The fringe of his wild black hair—in desperate need of a cut—partially shielded his face from her. “If you could drag us away and lock us up, would you?”

Leandra set aside her cup and reached down to push back stray dark curls. She brushed her thumb across his brow, rubbing against the faint worry line that he wore far, far too often. “Yes,” she said with as much honesty as she dared. Years ago, her laughing baby boy had wandered into a dream and found himself bonded to a slave—and as much as her heart ached for poor Leto living a life no one deserved, there was a part of her who hated him for bringing so much darkness to Aidan’s life. “Without a moment’s hesitation.”

He looked up, expression cracked open and vulnerable. Aidan opened his mouth to say something—

—only to be interrupted by Bethany’s sharp cry.

Leandra’s heart jumped to her throat, terror and hope flooding her in equal measures. Aidan shoved aside his tea and scrambled up, reaching to take her hand and pull her to her feet.

Malcolm was already sitting up in bed when they rushed into the room. He looked like hell, dark sagging bruises beneath his eyes, face drawn in exhaustion. But he was smiling when he saw her—and Bethany was sitting in her little cot, laughing and crying in great, heaving sobs.

“Oh my darling,” Leandra blurted, frozen in the doorway. She pressed a hand to her breast, briefly overwhelmed by gratitude. Bethany was awake; Bethany had _survived_ intact. She watched as Aidan clambered into his sister’s bed, dragged down as Bethany cleaved against him with a wild, tearful,

“I found him! I found him!”

“Shh, shh, Bethy; of _course_. Of _course_ you found him,” Aidan murmured, wrapping his arms around his sister and pressing his face to her snarled hair. She turned her face to cry against his tunic, fingers curled tight in the roughspun fabric. “No one thought you wouldn’t, not even for a moment.”

Leandra brushed at her eyes before slowly moving toward the bed she shared with her husband. He’d pulled back the curtain separating their bed from the childrens’. She moved to sit next to him, arms snaking around his middle. She could _feel_ his exhaustion like an ache in her belly. She could feel his pride, too, coiling up and up and up inside her. _Filling_ her until there wasn’t room for anything else.

Bethany was nearly hysterical. Her long, too-skinny frame shook against her older brother’s. “I wandered around for what felt like forever, so _lost_. There was an empty village and a moor and a ship, but there was no one there, no one anywhere, and I thought— I thought I’d never— But then I was in a library and I could hear him and he was _there_ and—”

She pressed her face against Aidan’s chest, overwhelmed.

“So he was there,” Carver’s voice drifted irritably from his cot. “Do you have to be so bloody _loud_ about it?”

“Carver, language,” Leandra tutted, trying to hide her smile. Malcolm, damn the man, didn’t even try.

“Poor Carver,” he said, folding Leandra’s hand in both of his. “Trying so hard to sleep the sleep of the just, and here his sister is drowning us all in her angst.”

Bethany huffed an annoyed breath, cut in half by a hiccup. “I, I am _not_ ,” she began.

Carver sat up with a scowl. “Was he _that_ ugly?” he demanded. “Or are you crying because he took one look at you and said thanks but no thanks?”

She lunged for him, but Aidan had her about the middle, laughing and saying something about Carver’s morning breath not being worth the risk. That didn’t stop the inevitable tussle, though. They reminded her of mabari pups—not for the first time—scrapping and snarling and snapping their teeth at each other.

 _Maybe_ , Leandra thought, fear draining out of her like infection lanced from a wound, _running away was worth it after all_.

Sensing her emotion, even if he couldn’t catch the thought behind it, Malcolm reached up to cup her jaw, turning her face to kiss her upturned brow.

 _I love you_ , Leandra thought, feeling the echo of his love settling over her. _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

“Okay then,” Aidan finally said, clambering up. Carver had grabbed hold of his leg at some point in their tussle, and he had to shake him off with a scathing look. “If Carver can stop being a brat, _I_ say we should get an early breakfast going and hear about Bethy’s new Voice.”

Carver swiped at him one last time before settling back, arms crossing over his chest. “And who made _you_ king of the house?”

“ _I_ did,” Leandra murmured. At Carver’s annoyed _‘Mother’_ , she added primly, “He made me tea.”

“Magic tea,” Aidan agreed, grinning at her. He laced his fingers with Bethany’s and tugged her up, then gently nudged her into her mother’s arms. “I’ll go get things started.”

She watched him go with impossible fondness, wrapping her arms around her (still sniffling) daughter. “Oh baby,” Leandra murmured, tucking Bethany’s hair behind her ears. “I’m so proud of you. Are you happy, dear?”

_Please be happy. Please let this not be a mistake. Please let whoever this strange young man is be worthy of you—and in Andraste’s mercy let him not bring any more darkness to this family._

“I _am_ ,” she promised, looking up with her wide, warm eyes. “Oh, Mother, I am. He’s older, a little, and very funny. Like Father.”

Malcolm chuffed a laugh and stood, reaching out to ruffle Carver’s hair. “Come on, champ—let’s leave the girls alone for a bit.”

Bethany ignored them. “His name is Anders, I think. At least, one of the others called him that. He lives in the Circle.” Midway through the door, Malcolm froze; Bethany didn’t notice. “He’s an apprentice there. It looked just like Father described it, too, all the way down to the rows of shelves and the curving walls and the statues looking down at the messy tables. And I’m sure, I’m _sure_ he heard me too. He gave a start when I said hello; I could see him a little through the bookshelf.”

Leandra looked toward her husband, feeling the sudden, churning worry and dismay building inside of him. _What_ , she wanted to demand. _What does it mean that he’s a mage?_

“Carver,” Malcolm said quietly, “go help your brother.”

“Aidan can go rot,” Carver muttered, arms crossing. He straightened at the look Malcolm gave him, however, quickly adding, “I, yes, I mean. Yes sir,” before scampering away.

Bethany glanced over, brows knitting together as her father came to crouch by the two of them. “Daddy?” she said.

The anxiety was rolling off him in waves, terrible and dark, but none of it touched his eyes as Malcolm reached out to tug one of her messy curls. “Did he say anything to you?” Malcolm asked. “Did he look at you? How certain are you that he knew you were there?”

Bethany’s black brows were knit together. “I’m certain,” she said. “He turned, and I saw his face. Our eyes met. That’s when I woke up. He’s very…” She trailed off, flush rising, and ducked her face away. “Um. I want to meet him for real.”

Malcolm reached out to cup the back of her skull, pulling her in to kiss her brow. His eyes met Leandra’s over her head. “You will, sweetheart,” he said. “We’re going to make certain of that. Now,” Malcolm added, pulling back. “Why don’t you go and join your brothers? Mother and I need to talk for a minute.”

Her daughter popped up with a sunny smile, scrubbing the lingering teartracks from her cheeks. “Okay. Love you,” she added, spinning on her heel and walking backwards. She was practically shining, happiness pouring from her in a radiant corona.

Malcolm straightened and crossed to the doorframe, tugging the curtain down. Leandra watched him with mounting terror, feeling the crashing waves of his fear and determination. “Malcolm?” she murmured, standing. “Please, you’re frightening me.”

“I know,” he said, turning back to her. “And I’m so sorry. It’s just—”

He dragged in a breath.

“Leandra. A mage latching on to another mage— They used to whisper about that in the Circle. It’s so rare it’s almost a myth more than fact. I don’t know—” He stopped, cursing quietly as Leandra moved closer. “I don’t know what’s true or not. I never bothered to find out.”

She tried to pour soothing emotions into him even as her hands began to tremble. “What do they say?”

Malcolm dragged his fingers through his hair, pacing away toward the window. The sun had fully risen by now, light casting over his handsome face. He was silent, staring out at the lake.

“ _Malcolm_.”

He turned back to her. “They say a lot of things, sweetheart,” he admitted. “And only a handful of them are true, I’m sure. It means instant Tranquility if the mage is stupid enough to let the Templars know, that’s for certain.”

“Oh _Maker._ ”

“And it means she’ll be more susceptible to demons until she finds him. And maybe even after she finds him and they bond—it’s possible bonding to him won’t shield her at all, the way a Voice normally does. A mage alone is bright enough to attract the attention of demons in the Fade. Two mages together?”

And she had thought Aidan sharing the pain and fear of a poor _slave_ boy had been bad. “What do we do?”

He shook his head. She could feel the tendrils of his frustrated powerlessness. “There’s really nothing we can do,” he said. “I’ll train her to shield herself as best she can. And… And we’ll ask her to try not to seek him out in the Fade.”

“She won’t listen.”

Malcolm spread his hands. “I know,” he said. “But maybe if we press on her how important it is—for _his_ safety, too—she’ll try. In the meantime, we need to learn everything we can about it, and that means—”

“That means leaving,” Leandra interrupted. “Moving.”

He nodded. He reached out to take her hands, lifting them to kiss her fingers. She felt so terribly cold. “We’ll have to risk a big city,” he said. “Denerim, perhaps. It would have the best records. It’ll be our best shot. And if it turns out that completing the bond is the safest thing for her… Well.” He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, trying to force a thread of hope through their bond—but she could tell just how fragile and false it was. “I know the Circle well. I’ll find a way to break out this Anders.”

“Why can it never be simple?” Leandra murmured. She felt as if the whole weight of the world was settling around her shoulders, dragging her down. “Why is it so… _Maker-taken difficult_ for our children to be happy? That’s _all_ I want, Malcolm, it’s—”

She broke off and turned her face away, biting the inside of her mouth. Malcolm’s kiss was soft against her hair. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, arms going around her slowly; strong, capable, warm. _They_ had never had to face any trouble greater than her disapproving parents and the Templars guarding the Gallows gates. “I know.”

 _Andraste watch over my babies_ , Leandra thought wistfully, letting herself be pulled fully into her soulmate’s arms. _Because Maker knows I haven’t proven equal to the task_.


	6. Aidan

“Come on,” the boy cried, catching Aidan’s hand as he raced past. “ _Run_!”

Aidan stumbled a step, two, before finding his balance and falling into a loping run in his friend’s wake. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting… Maker knew what. Templars, ogres, an archdemon, maybe.

Instead, a few chickens pecked at ribbons of dirt visible through cracked cobblestones. A filthy man shoved down his leathers and pissed against a shop wall. A tired woman sifted through a pile of trash.

It was the close of day in one of the poorest slums of Denerim and for once, everything seemed peaceful.

He squeezed his friend’s hand and let himself be dragged through an alleyway out onto the opposite cross-street. “What are we running from?”

“Shh!” Daveth hissed back.

They went thundering through a puddle of water—at least, Aidan hoped it was water—dank droplets spattering the ragged hem of his trousers. A whore looked up idly and adjusted the neckline of her bodice. The smell in this part of the city was incredible, human sweat and waste blending with the stench of the tannery stacked just outside the city walls. For the first year they’d lived in the capitol, Aidan had held his breath whenever he’d passed this way. Now, he barely noticed the smell.

Daveth slowed at the next main crossing, peering each way before tugging Aidan left, toward the Northwestern gates. The houses grew nicer and nicer the further from the slums they ran. In the distance, Aidan could hear the sluggish chug of the Drakon River and the buzz of the main marketplace.

A dwarf growled, “Hey, watch it, you two!” as he yanked his cart to a halt, barely an inch from running them over.

“Sorry!” Aidan called back.

“Piss off!” Daveth yelled cheerfully.

“And sorry for _that_ too!” Aidan added over his shoulder with a laugh, but they were already turning the corner and stumbling down yet another twisting alleyway. He had a stitch in his side and his lungs were beginning to burn, but, Maker, he felt _incredible_. The hum of the city echoed through his long limbs and his hand felt warm—tingling—clasped in Daveth’s firm grip. He could feel the callouses of the other boy’s palm against his own, could imagine…

Well. He was sixteen years old. He could imagine a _lot_ of things.

When they were finally within sight of the main city gate, however, Aidan dug in his heels. He gave Daveth’s hand a sharp tug, yanking him back when he would have kept going. “I…can’t…breathe,” Aidan gasped. He let go, dropping his hands to his knees as he bent forward. His breath came in ragged pants.

“Not… _here_ ,” Daveth hissed. He glanced over Aidan’s shoulder nervously, but there was no sign of pursuit. The market was just beginning to shut down, merchants boxing up their wares for the night. A Chanter’s voice rose above the crowded square.

No one spared a glance for two grubby teenage boys. They may as well have been invisible.

“Who’s…after us anyway?” Aidan straightened, breathing beginning to normalize, but he refused to budge even when Daveth hooked a hand in his elbow and tried to drag him down the street. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you _later_.”

Aidan pushed at Daveth’s shoulder, herding him back toward a secluded niche between two buildings. A half-wall jutted out from the stone, shielding the narrow patch of grass and dying herbs from sight. “You’ll tell me now,” he said. He caught at his friend’s sleeve when Daveth made to pull away. “Come on—there’s no one after us, and I’m tired of running.” He also didn’t want to risk barreling past the Chantry where any number of Templars could be milling about, but that as always remained unspoken. “So what did you do?”

“Oy, who’s to say _I_ did anything?” Daveth crossed his arms, dark brows drawing together. “Maybe I’m innocent—ever bloody well think of that?”

“No,” he laughed. “I _know_ you, remember?”

The scowl darkened—and then suddenly Daveth was grinning, sunny and bright and utterly charming. The rogue. “Oh, all right. I nicked something I ought’n’ve, and I’m pretty sure I was spotted.”

“Isn’t anything you could _nick_ automatically something you ought’n’ve?”

Daveth spread his hands wide. “Well. If you’re going’ta leave it out in the open, you’ve got to expect someone’ll come along and figure you aren’t too partial on keeping it.”

“Oh yeah? Remind me never to invite you back to the farm.” Aidan shook his head and leaned back against the stone wall. It was a warm day, but the oncoming twilight had brought with it a cooling wind. Out of sight of the bustling market, in the shade between two houses, it was almost…peaceful. He glanced at his friend from beneath his lashes, offering a crooked smile.

Daveth pushed back his dark brown hair, smirking back. He was a handsome boy perhaps a year or two older than Aidan—at least, Aidan figured he was a year or two older. It was hard to tell with the kids who made their living on the streets, and Daveth couldn’t be trusted to give a straight answer. All Aidan really knew about him was that he came from some village near the Wilds, he had a rotten father, and he was an unrepentant thief.

“No need to worry, love,” Daveth said with a broad wink. “I’d never steal from anyone half so pretty as you.”

Oh yeah. An unrepentant thief _and_ the biggest flirt Aidan had even met.

He looked away, stomach twisting pleasantly. He could feel color rising in his cheeks. It didn’t _mean_ anything when Daveth said those things—he flirted with everyone. He flirted with _Carver_ , just to make him huff and hiss and stalk away in a righteous snit. It was all very (frustratingly) innocent.

And even if it wasn’t…

Even if it wasn’t, Aidan wasn’t quite sure how he should feel about that.

He bit his lip, looking down at his feet while Daveth dug through the purse he’d liberated. He went into the Fade every night, and every night he tried to find Leto. It didn’t always work—the Fade could be difficult to navigate, and there were sometimes stretches of days, even weeks, when he didn’t manage to push through the confused dreamlike haze to reach warm Tevinter shores. But those nights when he _did_ find his Voice…

Maker. It made his whole body thrum just to think of it.

Aidan turned his face, closing his eyes with a flush of memory. Last night, Leto had been stripped down to the waist. His lean muscles gleamed with sweat and black hair had stuck damply to his olive-colored skin. He was practicing for something. Preparing for some…contest? Tourney? Fade dreams were so indistinct, and Aidan could never get close enough to truly piece everything together, but he thought that was what was happening. Whatever it was, it was important enough that Leto’s dreams had been filled with it for _months_.

And Aidan’s dreams had been filled with _him_. And that…didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right to sometimes wonder what Daveth’s mouth would feel like against his when his heart was already so full of Leto. It didn’t seem right to give all of himself to _Leto_ and spend the rest of his life completely alone.

He rubbed at his face with a soft sigh, trying to push away the near-constant haze of melancholy that came over him whenever he thought about his Voice so hopelessly far away. He’d give anything to find him, to _free_ him, but Aidan wasn’t a fool—he knew the likelihood of a lone apostate stumbling across a single elf in the whole of Tevinter was vanishingly small. Bethany was lucky. She _knew_ where her Anders was.

Aidan had no idea how to find Leto, and as much as his heart was telling him that there would never be anyone else he’d want as much, there was a part of him—a sixteen-year-old-boy part—that wondered if it would be so very wrong to at least give it a try.

“Someone’s thinking long thoughts.”

Daveth’s dry tone startled him from his thoughts. Aidan looked up, struggling not to flush. “Long thoughts are better than not thinking at all,” he tried countering, but it was a weak offensive.

Daveth tucked the coinpurse away and stood, long (long) limbs unfolding. “Did you know,” he mused, idly reaching out to press a palm against the wall. He leaned forward to rest his weight on that one outstretched arm. It brought his body…unnervingly close to Aidan’s. The bare skin of his wrist was mere inches away from Aidan’s cheek. “You always blush when you look at me. It’s got me to wondering: _why_?”

Aidan shifted uncomfortably, turning his face away from the distracting span of bare flesh. “Perhaps I’m embarrassed for you.” His voice came out sounding far rougher—throatier—than he’d intended. _Stop it_ , Aidan thought, stomach churning even as his body tightened in response. Daveth was beginning to grin, cocky smile spreading across his narrow features as he pressed in even closer.

As he pressed his _advantage_.

He slid his hands down so Aidan couldn’t duck away even if he’d wanted to. His eyes were dark, lashes flickering as his gaze dropped to Aidan’s mouth.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Daveth said. His lips curved into a crooked smile. “In fact…”

Aidan bit the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out as sharp hipbones rocked in _tight_ against his. Tight and hard and, oh Maker help him, sending a rush of heat spiraling through his body.

“Mm, yeah. That’s it there.” Daveth pushed forward again, riding the unsteady buck of Aidan’s hips with a breathless laugh. “Oy, eager there, aren’t you? What could it be you’re wanting, I wonder?”

He shuddered lightly and reached out to grab the front of Daveth’s shirt. His fingers tangled in dirty material even as he tipped his head back, surrendering to… Maker. He wasn’t even sure what. Aidan’s fantasies were as brilliant and aching as any other boy’s his age, but he’d spent so much of his life sheltered by the worried protection of his parents that he felt flatfooted. Uncertain. He thought he knew what happened between two boys, but in his mind it all started with kissing and ended with wet heat between his thighs. The middle part was a little…hazy.

Daveth drew in a slow, steady breath, head tipped toward Aidan’s bared throat. Aidan could feel each exhalation against his skin; it was driving him mad. “Well aren’t you a pretty one,” Daveth murmured, voice dropping.

Aidan squeezed his eyes shut. “If you don’t stop toying around and _kiss_ me, I’ll show you—”

But Daveth swallowed the rest of his frustrated threat, mouth catching Aidan’s hungrily. Aidan moaned and arched up into the kiss, rising up onto the balls of his feet as he fought to push closer, take _more_. He pressed their hips together and wound his arms around Daveth’s neck, twisting sinuously against the older boy’s lean body. A lightning chain of pleasure rocked through him at the contact, and even Daveth gasped into his mouth, cocksure confidence shaken at the flare of pleasure.

 _Maker, yes, please_ , Aidan thought dizzily, moving against Daveth. The other boy licked into his mouth, twining their tongues together as he drove Aidan back against the wall. His rough hands caught at Aidan’s hips, fingers a near-painful pressure as he yanked him closer. Aidan was practically dragged off his feet, but he managed to catch his balance against rough stone. He sucked eagerly at Daveth’s thrusting tongue, body throwing off sparks—immolating from the inside out—as he dug his fingers into dark hair and rocked against the hard bulge pressed against his hip.

It was… Maker, it was incredible.

He had no idea how long they clawed desperately at each other. Everything seemed to have fallen away and all he could do, all he could think of, was touching, kissing, _grinding_ up with short, helpless ruts of his hips. Daveth caught Aidan’s wrists and tried to pin them above his head, but Aidan broke free with a laughing gasp, pulling sharply at Daveth’s hair. He yanked the other boy’s head back and scraped his teeth along the line of his throat, loving the wanton moan that earned him, needing—

“What in the void are you _doing_? Are you _biting_ him? Gross!”

Aidan and Daveth jolted apart like startled prey. Aidan had already been pressed soundly against the wall, steady, but Daveth nearly tumbled over his own feet as he spun around. He staggered, cursing, as Aidan dragged his fingers through his messy hair and _glared_ at his younger brother.

Carver’s face was scrunched in palpable disgust. He had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, bits of groceries peeking out the open mouth when he moved. “You’re in an alley, too!”

“I am going to murder you,” Aidan said. He fought the temptation to wipe at his mouth. His body was no longer thrumming with pleasure. If anything, he felt cold inside; anxious at being caught. _Guilty_ , almost, though he refused to look at that emotion too closely yet. “Cheerfully.”

Carver snorted. “Please do! I think I’m going to take the image of you snogging to my grave; I may as well go there early and save myself years of misery.”

“Daveth,” Aidan said as he pushed away from the wall. “I’m going to—”

Carver ducked, but Aidan grabbed him before he could dart away, long fingers curling in the scruff of his younger brother’s collar. He yanked him back and got an elbow in the solar plexus for his troubles.

Daveth cleared his throat. “Fun as it is to watch the Hawke boys at each other’s’ throats,” he said. He carefully slipped around their tussle, heading toward the mouth of the little alley. Aidan looked up to watch him go—and doubled over when Carver clipped his nose just a little too hard.

“ _Ow_ ,” he snapped, clapping one hand over his nose as he jerked away. Carver immediately made a face that was somewhere between defiance and concern. Daveth was long gone. “I’m—Did you _break my nose_? I think you— Ugh, never mind. Stop looking at me like that; I’m fine.” Aidan gingerly brushed at the blood trickling down to his mouth. “I’m fine,” he said again, gentler, at Carver’s worried scowl. “What are you doing here anyway? Besides being the worst little brother of all time.”

Carver made a face at that, but he didn’t take another swipe at Aidan. Instead, he fell into step beside him, casting him quick glances as Aidan pressed his grimy sleeve to his face. They instinctively gave the Chantry a wide berth, moving toward the main gates that led out of the city. “ _You’re_ the worst,” he muttered. Then, “Mother sent me to the market before it closed. Loran said he spotted you running through the square as if a troll were on your tail. I just figured…”

Aidan lightly bumped their shoulders together, softening. “You just figured you’d lend a hand, just in case it tried to eat me?”

Carver shrugged his shoulders, not looking at him. The subtext there was clear—it could have been a Templar Aidan was running from. Carver, young as he was, had immediately gone to lend a hand.

“Thanks,” Aidan murmured, smiling despite the dull pain radiating from his maybe-broken nose.

“Yeah, well,” Carver said, “instead you were trying to eat _Daveth_ , which, _gross_. Does this mean I have to hear you moon about him _and_ Leto? Because I think I’ll gag if I have to—”

 _So much for fraternal affection_ , Aidan thought with a mental shrug. He stuck out a long, coltish leg and watched with grim satisfaction as Carver went tumbling face-first into the high grass.

“ _Hey_!” Carver bellowed, struggling to keep from crushing the groceries. He rolled to his side, grabbing for Aidan’s ankles, but Aidan danced away gracefully, kicking up a fine layer of dust. “HEY! Stop, just, Aidan! Stop that!”

“I’m sorry!” Aidan called cheerfully, carefully keeping out of Carver’s range as his brother struggled up to his feet. “Don’t understand a word—I don’t speak utter ponce!”

Carver growled and lunged for him, but Aidan spun away easily. A wind blew from the north, lifting dark curls from his brow, and he grinned as he raced away—his long (long, _long_ ) legs easily outstripped his brother’s, and even if blood was pouring unchecked down his chin from a nose that probably _was_ broken…at least Carver wasn’t talking about snogging anymore.

Small victories.


	7. Leto

  


He thought for sure he would die out there on the field. Leto hadn’t been the youngest vying for the magister’s attention—not by several years, at least—but he also wasn’t the strongest, the quickest. _The smartest_ , he thought with a frown, slowly clenching and unclenching his fist at the rush of memory. It was a miracle, considering the men he had been forced to fight and kill, that he had survived at all.

But he had. He’d made it. He just…really wished he knew what came next.

Leto sat up, dark hair falling into his eyes. The little room the magister had given him was easily twice the size of the hovel he’d shared with his family. There was a single bed of good straw matting on a sturdy frame. Next to it was a low table with a washbasin re-filled daily with clean water. There were even simple linen curtains at the windows and a colorful rag rug, breaking up the intricate brick-and-mortar flooring. Leto dropped a leg over the side of the bed and reflexively curled his toes in the colorful fabric. It reminded him, strangely, of the little rag dolls he used to make for Varania when they were young, out of clothing too threadbare to withstand another mending.

Of course, now that they were free, his mother and sister could find work and eventually afford much finer things. _If_ the magister kept his word.

“Festis bei umo cana varum,” Leto muttered, rising unsteadily. He slapped a hand against the rough stucco wall as he swayed and found his balance again; his knees shook like a newborn calf’s for a moment, then steadied. He’d been little more than a fleshy pulp when he’d dragged himself off the field; only very strong magic had kept him alive. Stuck in this room , healing, he’d lost all sense of time, but the extent of his injuries had been so great that he was sure it must have been a week at least since the tourney. And in all that strange, unmoored span of days, there had been no word on what would come next—what future he had won for himself. His mother and sister were free and he was…what? There was no way to know for sure.

He pushed away from the wall with a sour noise and shuffled to the window. Danarius’ estate was on acres of fine land with the main keep perched like a dragon on the cliffs. His single window framed it perfectly, like an oil painting. Now, clouds hung heavy and dark about its winged buttresses and the foundations looked as if they had been carved from the black rock they had been built on. Almost, Leto thought, as if the manor had _grown_ there, organic and twisted as an archdemon. As if it had erupted out of the ground, all too alive. Hungry.

Thunder rumbled, and the lightning flickering off scores of windows made them look like hooded eyes, fixed on him in the gathering dusk.

Leto shuddered, then pulled back. “Bah,” he said, rubbing his arms. The wind blowing in from the ocean was cooler than expected—the storm was going to be a bad one. He reached to pull his shutters closed, twisting the hook into its latch. They quivered and banged against the wind, but the latch held. Maybe it would even manage to keep out the rain.

Then he turned back toward his little room, restless. Leto couldn’t remember the last time he had been given so much time with so little to do. He could sleep—but then, he felt as if he had been sleeping non-stop for a week. He could clean—but then, there was always a prickly defiance deep in his gut at the thought of doing work without an explicit order, as if quiet compliance meant he had finally been broken. There was a single book left behind by the room’s prior occupant, but the lack of pictures made it less than useless, and he didn’t even have a fireplace in which it could be kindling.

That left, he supposed, stretching out his still-sore muscles and making sure he was fit for whatever his new master had planned for him. He had gone through a great deal of money and effort to claim him; whatever it was, it was going to be big.

Leto only managed a few steps before he heard a soft scrape of a footfall on the low stoop outside his door. Seconds later, the knob turned. He stilled, waiting, expecting…he wasn’t sure. The healer, again, with another draught. Another slave with his dinner. The slavemaster himself, come to inspect his progress, or perhaps even the head of the bodyguards to test whether their master had made a sound acquisition.

He never, _never_ , expected the magister himself to step through the door and into the little hovel; the man’s pale blue eyes fell on him immediately, like the heart of winter’s grasp. Leto felt the chill all the way to his bones.

“Ah,” Danarius said, thin lips curving into a pleased smile. “My little wolf is up and about. Good. Come,” he added, beckoning to Leto. “My personal healer will attend to you. Tonight, I think, we will begin.”

 _Begin what_ , he would have said, if he had not been raised a slave. Even so, he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep the questions from spilling out. Danarius raised a slate-grey brow and Leto hurried forward, bare feet whispering across the stone floor. He fell uneasily into the other man’s wake, instinctively allowing a respectful three steps’ distance. There was a stave bound to his new master’s back, Leto noted, and a dagger strapped to his waist. The hilt was ornate, rubies and garnets crusting the pommel and tooled leather. The blade itself was strangely curved with a jagged tip, like twin fangs. It wasn’t the sort of weapon that would be much good in a fight. It wasn’t the sort of weapon that would be much good for anything but…but what it was obviously intended for.

It didn’t _surprise_ him that Danarius practiced blood magic; it only surprised him that the mage was so open about it. The other magisters in Leto’s experience at least made a token effort to hide their illicit activities. But perhaps, he thought darkly as the main doors opened for them, sumptuously-dressed twin slaves holding them wide as they passed, Danarius was so powerful that he no longer had anything to hide.

Leto glanced over his shoulders as the doors were pushed shut near-silently behind them. One of the elves was looking at him with clear pity on her face; she quickly turned away when she caught his eye.

 _That_ , he thought, clenching his fists at his sides, _is not a good sign_.

He followed his master through the great hall and up a winding stairway. Lightning forked as they reached the second landing, a bright flash filling the dim. The flare caught Danarius’ sharp features; in profile, the play of light and shadows twisted his face into an Orlaisian death mask. There was something…off about the magister. Leto couldn’t dismiss the roiling concern, the growing panic bubbling up deep in his stomach. Fight or flight was beginning to make his muscles twitch beneath his skin, but there was no one he could fight, nowhere he could fly _to_.

There was nothing to do but bow and accept his fate.

Leto grit his teeth and followed his master through a pair of ornate doors, not allowing his growing fear to show on his face. _You chose this_ , he reminded himself. _For Mother. For Varania. They are free, now; bear what you must._

“Ah, is this the elf, then?”

There was an even older, frailer man waiting in the dark study. He wore robes of deep violet marked with slashes of red. A pair of half-moon spectacles rested on his beak of a nose. A young woman, barely more than a girl, hovered behind him. Her eyes were wide in a too-pale face; she looked, strangely, as if _she_ were about to bolt at any moment.

Danarius came to a stop next to a strange silver table. Even in the fitful ring of candles, it practically cast its own light. “This is the young wolf,” he said, gesturing for Leto to step closer. “He has proven himself…remarkably resilient.”

The old healer squinted his eyes at Leto, studying the set of his shoulders, the unbroken line of his body. “Hm,” he grunted. “You are not wrong to call him _young_. How old are you, boy?”

Leto straightened, chin coming up. “I am nineteen.”

“So young?”

“Old enough.”

By all rights, that should have earned him a boxed ear, but the healer just laughed and adjusted his spectacles, dark gaze cutting to Danarius. “Well chosen, indeed. The fire speaks well of the will inside. He will need that, and more, if he’s to make it through what is to come.”

Leto felt the shiver work its way across his flesh, but he refused to drop his gaze. All he had was this small defiance—he wasn’t going to let them strip that from him.

The healer circled around him as Danarius moved to a desk overflowing with papers and vials. Head bowed, the young girl skirted the strange silver table, tugging at various straps attached along a hidden rail running about the entire length. Each flicker of light—from the candles, from the lightning forking just outside the big arched windows—reflected off its perfectly smooth, glassy top, bathing her downturned face in shifting shadows. There was something off about it. He couldn’t put his finger on _what_ , but something about the girl’s dark head bowed over the table as she worked sent a shiver down his spine.

The healer poked a wizened finger into his side and Leto jerked, looking down. Blue light bathed him. “Ah, yes, yes,” the man said, pleased. The energizing rush of a healing spell was a cold sort of fire sinking into flesh. “Yes, he is quite well enough now. Very strong. Strapping.” He poked Leto again, just above the sharp jut of his hipbone. “Well chosen, indeed, Danarius. Hadriana?”

The young girl looked up, lips parted in a flash of some unnamable emotion. It was covered quickly, subsumed by forced serenity. “Yes, magister?”

“Is everything ready?”

She gave a strap one final, hard tug, dark brown braids falling over her shoulders. One brushed the silver table and its surface almost seemed to… _ripple_ in response. “All is ready, magister,” she said. The girl—Hadriana—skirted the table, close enough that its strange light caught the sharp angles of her face again.

And that’s when Leto noticed what had been unnerving him this whole time—the silver table reflected shadows and light up at the girl, but even though its surface was glassy smooth and shining as a mirror, her face did not reflect back on _it_.

“Good, good. Leto, if you would.” The healer twisted his mouth into a thin grimace, a parody of a smile. Leto shot a glance toward Danarius, silently praying—but Danarius was turning back to look at them, a chalice in his hands; his eyes were flat and cold and unrelenting.

 _Remember what you were given in return for this_ , Leto reminded himself, swallowing. He took a step toward the table.

Hadriana spoke, her voice thin and sweet. “Magister?” she said, twisting her fingers together. All three men turned to look at her; she couldn’t hide the flush of excitement coloring her smooth cheeks. “Ah. Shouldn’t he be naked? It. It would seem that it would be easier if…”

She trailed off, but Danarius merely gestured and said, as if this were beneath his concern, “Very well. Leto, strip.”

 _That_ was almost enough to make him balk. He hated being exposed, having eyes on him. Even with his (rare) lovers, he always felt a certain amount of hesitation when it came turn to slide out of his own threadbare clothing. He was too aware of the gauntness of his frame, the dark skin stretched tight over prominent bones. He felt vulnerable, and in a life where another man had full control over whether he lived or died from moment to moment, he’d never been fully comfortable giving up that small amount of armor he was allowed.

But still.

 _Still_.

It was a direct order from his master, and he had fought—and nearly _died_ —for the honor of being this man’s personal chattel.

 _Fastevas_ , he thought darkly, reaching down to yank the hem of his shirt free. _Use your freedom well, Varania. Become a powerful magister and flay the skin from this man’s bones for me._ He balled up his shirt and flung it aside, earning a surprised laugh from the old healer. His trousers and smallclothes slid to the ground in an inelegant puddle, where he left them, defiant.

Leto stood there for a long, brazen minute, completely naked, feeling their eyes on him. He would not allow himself to feel weak in this, he vowed. He would not allow them to so easily unmake him. He lifted his chin, dark hair falling back from his eyes, then gracefully turned and climbed onto the silver table. It was _cold_ , colder than ice, the sting of it unexpected. Leto hissed in a breath, then clenched his teeth, refusing to let his discomfort show. He stretched out his legs and folded his hands into his lap, waiting for further instructions—ramrod-straight and defiant.

Danarius chuckled.

“This will be a new experience for you,” the healer said, skirting the table. Leto held still as he began to bind his legs, lashing him down tight from ankles to hips. “A mage remembers the Fade clearly, but to you— Ah, to you, it is just a dream world. Tonight, that will be different. Tonight, you will be _aware_.”

His master moved to stand by his shoulder, long-fingered hands curled around the bowl of the chalice. His lips were still twisted into a thin smile. “You may even enjoy this part of it,” he said, pressing the chalice to Leto’s mouth. Danarius tipped it back, fingers of his other hand snaking into Leto’s hair; with a sharp yank, he drew Leto’s head back, forcing him to gasp in a breath. His mouth filled with something that tasted sharp and bright and metallic on his tongue.

He swallowed. There was no other choice.

“Good,” Danarius murmured, setting the chalice aside. He tugged sharply again, and Leto allowed himself to be drawn back, to fall almost weightless against the silver table. Its ice snaked through him, numbing everything it touched.

Which, Leto thought, may not be such a bad thing.

Leto stared grimly up at the ceiling as they checked his bindings, refusing to let himself shudder at the feel of their hands on bare flesh. _You have borne worse_ , he tried reminding himself, but in this moment, mind going hazy from whatever Danarius had given him, he couldn’t remember ever feeling anything this…wrong. Invasive. His skin crawled at each brush of old, bone-thin fingers. Some distance away, thunder rumbled. The pitched ceiling swum over him and shadows darted at the corners of his eyes. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, his vision had blurred into colorful tracers. Everything was going hazy, as if seen through a film of smoke.

He was so _tired_.

“Good boy; my good little wolf.” Leto’s arms were being bound at his sides. Something was clamping down around his head to keep it still. He knew, in some distantly echoing part of him, that he should be afraid, but he wasn’t sure he could feel fear anymore. He was floating too far above his own body to feel anything at all.

 _Do not give in_ , Leto thought, struggling to stay moored in his own body as Hadriana leaned close. He could feel the press of her still-developing breasts against his arm; her breath was unpleasantly hot and wet against his ear.

“Dream well,” she murmured, voice pinpoint clear even as the two males faded into the mist. The sweetness was gone, replaced by a chilling venom. “You may enjoy the Fade well enough, but the rest is going to be a _bitch_.”

Leto expelled a breath and tried to turn his face away, but he was held fast, trapped. His body was going nowhere.

His mind…that was a different story.

It was all so very strange. There was a distant echo in the darkness, like the beating of a drum. It throbbed through his ghostly form in a steady rhythm; he could feel his heart shifting to match its pace. Or was the _drumbeat_ his heart? He imagined his blood rippling in response to the deep _boom boom boom_ , like a stone tossed into water; the tracery of veins were holding him down onto a gleaming silver sea. He floated there on the waves, and beneath him—

 _Leto_.

—beneath him, death; a dark shape moving as—

_Leto. It’s all right._

—as he fought not to scream. He was afraid again; he had never been so afraid. Dreams were gathering at the crest of the dark city hovering at the edge of his vision, building power as they prepared to come crashing down around him. He tried to struggle away, but he was lashed down tight, a moth pinned to a board, and the drums, the drums in the deep were—

 _It’s just a dream_ , the almost-familiar voice murmured, coming from someplace far away and yet…very near. _And if it’s just a dream, that means you can wake up. Right? Wake up, Leto. It’s going to be okay._

Wake up. As if that were so easy to do.

And yet…

Blindly trusting that familiar-yet-not voice, fighting against his very nature, Leto squeezed his eyes shut and gave in. All at once, the drumming ceased. His weightless limbs grew heavy again, solid, and when he opened his eyes, he was sitting in a familiar garden.

It was on the high walk of his old master’s grounds, breaks in copses of orange trees offering breathtaking views of the sea. Waves crashed against black rock hundreds of feet below, their white caps swirling with unexpected bursts of color. There was a song drifting from somewhere very far away, the low, familiar rhythm sinking into his blood. The sun was hot and good against his (thankfully clothed) shoulders.

And there, sitting next to him on the ornately carved bench, hair a black mass of curls over a strikingly earnest, _worried_ face, was a boy just a few years younger than himself.

 _A demon?_ Leto thought, moving to his feet to put distance between them. A demon or a magister, certainly; he didn’t think anyone else could walk so brazenly into the Fade.

The…whatever it was…was watching him with striking grey-blue eyes. They were large and fringed with dark lashes, tip-tilted just enough to make Leto wonder if there was elf blood somewhere in his line. He had a full mouth and a pointed chin; he was also wearing the most ridiculous robes Leto had ever seen.

And. He. Was. Just. _Staring_. Not moving. Not saying a word. Just watching him hungrily, as if he expected Leto to disappear at any moment.

“All right,” Leto finally snapped, crossing his arms. “You may as well speak. Are you here to tempt me, demon? If so, please finish and be done. I do not have patience for this.”

The demon’s ( _could_ it simply be a magister? Leto had never seen a demon before, but he certainly would never have pictured _this_ ) mouth dropped open, eyes going _huge_. He startled to his feet, robes settling around skinny legs, and sputtered in heavily accented Arcanum, “Andraste’s flaming sword, you can _see_ me?”

Leto scowled. “Of course I can see you; I am not blind.”

The boy just stared. A wind rustled through the branches overhead, filling the air with the sweet tang of citrus. Black curls were caught by the wind, too, making a halo about the boy’s shocked-pale face.

He was…handsome, Leto supposed. If he was inclined to notice such things. Coltish and awkwardly tall and far too skinny, with the promise to grow into something resembling beauty and maybe even grace within some years’ time. There was something more to him than a fair face, though, which made Leto shift in discomfort. He was…appealing. Appealing in a way he was _not_ going to consider.

“I,” the boy said. “I. I’m.” He drew in a stuttering breath, swaying a little. His grey eyes had gone nearly black, pupils swallowing up iris until all Leto could see was the faintest rim surrounding impossible depths. “I, oh.”

“Yes?” Leto demanded, impatient.

The boy drew a trembling hand across his brow. “Oh, knickerweasles,” he murmured earnestly. “Okay, this is definitely shock, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to faint. Can you even faint in the Fade? Oh, oh void.”

“You will _not_ ,” Leto began, straightening in protest, but the boy was already staggering—and really, it was impulse to not let him fall. He wrapped his arms around skinny shoulders, ducking to catch him against his own body as the boy sagged. He was compact but surprisingly sturdy under the huge swath of billowing fabric; pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, Leto could feel the boy’s muscles against him. This close, he could feel his breath against his face. His skin smelled, strangely, of mint and lemongrass and wet dog.

Long, black lashes swept against alarmingly pale cheeks. Black hair formed loose curls at the nape of a strong neck and across a sweat-slick brow. The boy had a face that was…familiar, somehow. Impossible, yes, but…there it was. As if he had seen him before many times but never quite remembered.

He couldn’t shake the low thrum of _awareness_.

“Sorry,” the boy mumbled. His coltish form was flickering around the edges, as if he were phasing in and out of the Fade. “I just, I. I didn’t expect you to be able to _see_ me.”

Leto huffed out a breath and slowly began to lower the trembling boy to the ground, carefully laying him out across the warm grass. The world seemed to swirl around them, colors and light twisting together. The boy faded away to a ghost, then returned; he had his lower lip between his teeth as if he were fighting to remain awake (asleep?), eyes locked on Leto’s face.

“This is ridiculous,” Leto said, settling into an easy crouch by the boy’s head. He frowned down at him, unaccountably _worried_. His fingers twitched against the desire to touch fair skin.

The frown became a scowl. 

“Malum,” Leto muttered, reaching out almost against his own will to brush his palm across the wild mop of black curls. His skin tingled, alive where they touched. “Vishanti caevas.”

“I can feel you,” the boy murmured, closing his eyes. He flickered around the edges again, nearly fading away. And then, as Leto slid his thumb between his brows (what was _wrong_ with him?) he gave a shuddery gasp and was fully corporeal once more.

The boy opened his grey-blue eyes; slowly, almost shyly, he grinned up at Leto, dimples flashing at the corners of his full mouth. “Hi,” he said, then gave a breathless laugh.

Leto scowled, even has his heart gave an unexpected twist. _If this is a demon’s work_ , he thought darkly, pulling his hand away, _I suppose it explains the weakness of mages_. 

All it had taken was a span of minutes, and he was already lost.


	8. Aidan

Aidan was fairly certain the human heart couldn’t just explode in happiness. Pure joy was just a feeling, not a medical malady. The desperate rush of it, the breathless light filling him until he thought he might just shake apart at the pressure—that was all in his head. It wasn’t _real_.

But, oh, Maker, it felt real enough. Laying in the sunny garden, staring up in to Leto’s face—feeling his _hands_ on him—his heart pounded so fast and so hard he thought for sure he was a breath away from dying.

If he could actually breathe.

And…that was probably going to be a problem soon.

Leto scowled, dark brows puckered together, and brushed his palm over Aidan’s brow up into his hair. His long fingers curled almost impulsively, snarling in the messy curls Aidan hated, and Aidan felt his whole lanky frame _tremble_ in response.

“You are gaping like a dead fish,” Leto said. His surly, growling voice was another punch to the gut; all Aidan could do was try to gasp in enough air to fill his lungs and, well, gape. “Like that. That expression you are making now. If you are some kind of demon, you are clearly not a very good one.”

“I’m— What—? No!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to wrangle his thoughts into something approaching sense. “I’m not, no, no demon,” Aidan finally managed.

Leto slowly pulled his hand away; Aidan whined in the back of his throat, opening his eyes again to meet Leto’s. They were huge and _green_ , the kind of green found on forest floors in the dim shadows that saw little light. There was a challenge clear in them, and a question, and a… A longing that Aidan felt reflected back deep in himself.

Who are you; what is this; why do I want you?

He could read his face so easily. Leto didn’t need to say anything, Aidan realized with a painful shock of joy. Aidan already knew anything he would say before he even opened his mouth.

“Are you a lackwit?”

Except that. He hadn’t known Leto was going to say _that_. He drew in a steadying breath—easier, now that Leto’s hands weren’t on him—and slowly pushed himself up. Leto pulled back sharply even as he lifted his hands to help. He froze midway between the two impulses, brows sharply drawn again.

Aidan carefully lifted his own hands, palm-up, in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, focusing on finding the right words. He’d gotten pretty good at Arcanum over the years. “And _no_ , I’m not a lackwit, though Carver would probably tell you differently. You just surprised me, that’s all. I…wasn’t expecting you to be able to see me.”

“You said that before.” Leto didn’t relax, but he didn’t pull any farther away, either. “Why?” Then, “Are you a magister?”

Aidan frowned and quickly shook his head. “No, no, _definitely_ not. I’m an apostate.” The word didn’t have an exact translation in Arcanum; Leto frowned, not understanding. “An…illegal mage who lives outside the Circle. I live on a _farm_. In Ferelden.”

“Ah,” Leto said, “that explains why you speak as if you had swallowed a mouthful of rocks.”

Aidan snorted, not at all offended. “You’re kind of an ass,” he pointed out happily. He’d never realized how charming he could find that. “And yet I still like you; go figure. But no, I mean, yes—Yes, that is probably why I sound weird to you.” A sudden, distressing thought struck him. Leto had such a _beautiful_ voice—deep and rich and gravel-rough in a way that made his toes curl. Leto was _gorgeous_ , too, and clever, and just being near him was enough to make Aidan’s skin go hot and tight all over. It was stupid, but he’d never considered that _he_ wouldn’t do the same for Leto. That Leto wouldn’t feel the same attraction, the same instant need, that he did. “Is it…bad?” Aidan asked, voice small. “Do I sound…? Am I…?”

 _Do you want me_ , he could have said. But how could _he_ say something like that to someone like _Leto_? “I must look pretty weird to you,” he finally settled on, shoulders hunching forward self-consciously.

Leto scowled down at the ground between them, then slowly settled back—settled _close_. Their knees almost brushed, and when he rested his hands on his crossed legs, they came dangerously close to touching Aidan’s. “It is fine,” he said; his voice was deceptively gruff.

Aidan’s fingers twitched. “Okay,” he said, wanting to reach out and grab Leto’s hand so badly it was an actual physical ache.

Leto shifted, his own fingers slowly flexing as if he were fighting the same impulse. He was practically glaring holes into the patch of grass between them. 

“So,” Aidan began, not quite sure which direction to take. He needed to know why—how—Leto was here. He wanted to ask about his life, to soak in all the details he couldn’t glean from dreams. Maker, he had to explain the whole Voice thing before he went a step farther, just in case it wasn’t a concept Leto had stumbled across before. He had to find out where he was, too, so he could try to make his way to Leto someday.

And, maybe most importantly, he had to _look_ at him, to _touch_ him. He had to soak in this moment and hold it close forever, because whatever strange twist of fate had brought them here, it may never happen again.

“You probably have a lot of questions,” Aidan finally settled on.

Leto looked up sharply, dark hair falling into his eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, leaning closer. Aidan fought the urge to sway into his heat. “ _Is_ this the Fade? Do all Ferelden…apostates…come here? Are there more of you near? Where are they? _Why_ are you so familiar?” The last was practically spat at him, but there was no anger on Leto’s face—just a searching sort of confusion.

And this, Aidan thought, carefully reaching out, was where he needed to begin. He caught Leto’s hands in his, _shivering_ at the jolt of contact. Leto shivered as well; his green eyes darkened, then dropped to where their hands were joined. “I,” Aidan began, but his breath was catching in his throat and it was difficult to force the words past. “My name is Aidan Hawke,” he tried again. “I live in Ferelden with my family. We’re apostates—illegal mages.” Or, well, enough of them were that it was close enough to true. “Other mages can come into the Fade while they sleep, but they won’t come here, not unless they drink lyrium and are looking for us. _I’m_ here because…well. Um. Because you’re my Voice and you called to me.”

Leto pulled his hands away; it took everything Aidan had to let him. “Explain that,” he said sharply.

“The concept is a little different in Tevinter, I think.” Many of the old books on a mage’s Voice had been destroyed centuries ago—he’d never felt so much like he was fumbling lost in the dark. “It is… A mage—a magister, where you are—has someone who… Someone who they hear in the Fade. Someone they feel drawn to. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never met before. It’s an instinct, a kneejerk reaction, like breathing or blinking. It just _is_. And if the mage finds this person, then—”

Leto cut him off coldly. “I know what happens then.”

That…didn’t sound good. “Leto,” Aidan began, but Leto was rising to his feet, putting distance between them. Everything about him had gone cold, was going closed off. Aidan bit his mouth and tried desperately to think of a way to call it all back. 

“I have no interest in blood magic, _Hawke_ ,” Leto spat. “I will not be bound in such a way. I am no _unum vinctum_.”

Aidan jerked up, scrambling to his feet as Leto stalked away. “Wait!” he called, stumbling after him. “Wait, no, it isn’t like—” He caught Leto’s arm.

Leto turned quick as a striking snake and shoved Aidan back, eyes flashing with a sick blend of fear and fury. “ _Do not_ touch me.”

He had to fight the wild urge to burst into tears. All the times he’d imagined meeting Leto face to face, talking to him, he’d never dreamed he could fuck it up like this. “Wait, _please_ ,” Aidan begged, eyes pricking hot no matter how hard he fought it. “I, please, just— Please just listen to me. It isn’t what you think, I promise it isn’t; just give me a moment to explain what it’s like in Ferelden.” Leto pulled back another step, glaring at him through slitted eyes. “If it _is_ the same, or if you just aren’t okay with it for any reason, I’ll… I’ll find a way to make it stop. I won’t come see you. I’ll do _something_ , anything. I promise. Leto. I’ll never force this on you.”

Aidan ducked his head, trying to catch Leto’s eyes. “Leto, I promise. Okay?”

Leto was silent for so long that Aidan thought maybe he had fucked up again. But then, slowly—grudgingly, almost—Leto nodded. “Fine,” he said, pulling back another half-step and crossing his arms. “Talk.”

“I. Okay, talking.” Aidan shoved his fingers through his hair; he was trembling all over, adrenaline racing through him. He wished he had been given time to prepare for this, but he’d never _dreamed_ this chance meeting could happen. Non-mages couldn’t just walk the Fade without some outside interference…which he needed to ask about, but only _after_ he’d found the words to explain the tangled longing in his heart and oh Maker how could he put it all into words? “It’s. The Chantry here says that each mage is born with…with a part of their soul missing. That’s where magic comes from—from the open wound inside of us. It’s also what attracts demons. We’re born damaged, we’re, ah, we’re bleeding out, I guess, into the Fade, and they can sense it, sense that power and that _hurt_.”

It was a hurt; it was an endless ache. Aidan closed his eyes and saw the way his father looked at his mother. He remembered the heartbreak of hearing Leto’s voice for the first time, whisper-singing a lullaby to his little sister. If Leto didn’t _want_ him…he couldn’t imagine how deep that cut would go.

“But men are supposed to be whole,” Aidan whispered, hot tears on his lashes. He didn’t want to cry—he wasn’t a baby—but even talking about it made that ache bloom with fresh heat. “The Chantry says that mages should look to the Maker to fill that void, that maybe then we’ll be healed, but there’s more to it that they don’t like people to know. The Maker didn’t mean for us to be wounded animals, so he created other halves that can fill that emptiness and create a, a better whole. Or maybe they were a whole before and the Maker deliberately split them apart so that they couldn’t threaten his power—the story changes, but it’s all, it’s all the same, and. And they, the Voice, can be halfway across the world but once a mage is old enough, if he’s shown how, he’ll be able to hear them calling. It’s… It’s a moment of peace, a bandage, until the two meet and they come together and they’re— They’re _together_. Like puzzle pieces. They just fit. And they know each other better than anyone could because they belong together.”

He looked up, knowing he wasn’t making any sense, but he didn’t have the words to explain it. The Chantry had philosophies and doctrines, but Father hadn’t bothered teaching any of them much of what the Chantry had to say. All Aidan had were stories and the evidence of his own eyes and heart.

There was a piece of him missing, and Leto was the only one who could ever make him whole. That was the length and breadth of his personal philosophy.

“We call it the Voice because we can hear you in the Fade, sometimes, calling to us. Um. _I_ can hear you. And sometimes I can find you when you’re dreaming, and if you’re having a nightmare, I can pull you through it, or make it hurt less or—” Leto was pulling away. “I don’t know how to explain it!” Aidan exclaimed bitterly, feeling pieces of himself break up inside him, unmoored and desperate. “I’m just a stupid kid, still. I’m not— I’ll _learn_ ,” he promised, practically pleading. “I’ll learn how to explain it so it doesn’t sound so _stupid_ and terrible, but just, please, I— _Please_ , Leto. I hear you when I sleep and I can’t not come to you, and whatever the magisters say this is, they’re wrong. It’s not blood magic. It’s not…” He trailed off, heart clenched into a fist, staring helplessly at Leto’s coldly closed-off expression.

“I’m sorry,” Aidan whispered. “I just feel it; I don’t know how to say it.”

Leto’s eyes were on him, impossible to read. Around them, the strange shapes in the Fade twisted and swayed, distorting the vision of the garden as if they were seeing it through a film of warped glass. Finally, Leto cleared his throat; his voice was rough with some unknowable emotion. “And so,” he said very slowly, “as the mage, you would own me? I would be yours?”

Aidan looked up, startled, and spoke without thinking. “Oh Andraste’s knickers, _no_. If anything, I am _yours_.”

He wanted to take the words back the moment they tripped off his tongue. It sounded so stupid aloud, like a schoolboy crush, when it was a hundred thousand times _more_. “I,” he tried again, fumbling, despairing—but Leto was stepping near, Leto was closing the distance between them. Aidan’s breath caught in his throat as elegant fingers curled around his wrist, Leto’s other hand lifting to push his fingers into Aidan’s hair almost roughly. He was scowling, green eyes narrowed, but there was a flush breaking across his high cheekbones, staining all the way up to his eartips as he tugged Aidan roughly against him.

Aidan went—of _course_ he went—breath coming quick and sharp. His heart was pounding so fast he thought for sure it would come ripping out of his chest. He could feel Leto’s warm breath against his cheek. “Leto?” Aidan murmured.

“You are mine?” 

Heat blossomed low in his stomach at the rough gravel of Leto’s voice. Aidan bit his lower lip and tried to swallow back the helpless noise that wanted to escape his chest. He swayed closer, _hoping_ , and almost too afraid to hope at the same time. “Yes,” he said, tipping his face up. He hadn’t hit the last of his growth spurts, and a couple of years further into adulthood, Leto was several inches taller than him. The difference in their heights, in the muscle definition that was clear in Leto’s slim frame was… Maker, it was all the more exciting. Leto was nearly a man grown, and he was so close Aidan could feel each rise and fall of his chest. “So much so, yes.”

“I have never had anything that was mine.” Leto tipped his face down to study him—to study Aidan’s _mouth_ —and that heat was beginning to spread through him, low and steady and urgent.

Aidan fought not to arch against him like a greedy cat. “You’ve always had me,” he said, not sure whether it was the right thing to say, but needing to say it anyway. “From the very beginning.”

And then with a low, almost angry-sounding noise, Leto closed the distance between them and caught Aidan’s mouth in a hard, desperate kiss.

The noise that was torn out of him was _aching_ , as if Leto had ripped open his chest and shoved his fist deep inside. Aidan arched close, arms twining around Leto’s neck as his lips instinctively parted. The first swipe of Leto’s tongue made him moan, hips pushing up helplessly— _mindlessly_ —heat and need and love ripping through him in a confusion of sensation and relief.

Leto’s grip in his hair tightened reflexively and Aidan whimpered in response. He brushed their tongues together, twining before slicking deep, _deeper_. Leto’s other hand dropped to his waist, muscles tightening as he curved his arm around Aidan’s hips and yanked him in close. Their bodies, seamed together, was, Maker, the hottest thing Aidan had ever experienced. He pushed in, trying desperately not to _rut_ , aware he was getting hard against Leto’s hip but unable to do anything but stroke their tongues together and shudder.

Leto growled low in his chest and pushed them back a step. Aidan went willingly, nails digging into narrow shoulders; he tilted his head for a better angle, scoring Leto’s lower lip with his teeth before tugging sharply and licking away the sting.

Aidan made a hungry noise that was quickly swallowed up as Leto took his mouth again, stealing control of the kiss. His hands were hard, almost bruising, on him, but Aidan didn’t care. He barely noticed—his heart was hammering like mad in his chest and his head was spinning and Leto’s tongue was twining deep with his as if he never intended on letting go and—

And who needed to breathe, anyway?

He pushed closer, hips rucking up helplessly. The Fade was responding around them, and Aidan knew a storm would have broken out overhead if they had met for real, in the world. He could feel power bleeding out of him in great, messy waves, but Leto was there to fill the gaps, Leto was—

“Please, yes, oh, okay, yes,” Aidan whispered into each bruising, frantic kiss. He dragged his nails down Leto’s arms, tearing blindly at his clothes. Aidan rocked his hips forward again, so hard it was beginning to _hurt_ , making the kiss go sloppy in his eagerness.

Leto turned his face away with a rasping laugh. “ _Wait_ ,” he said. His breath was coming in quick, hard pants, and that… Aidan had to squeeze his eyes shut against the animal surge of _want_ lancing through him. He’d done that to Leto. He’d made him need this.

It was a dizzying, incredible thought, and it was all he could do not to dive back into the kiss and see where it took them.

Leto tried to gentle the kiss, pulling back on the urgency of it, but Aidan was too new to this, too eager. He stumbled forward with a low whine, but Leto’s hands were on his hips, gently putting distance between them. 

And he was saying something. 

“I’m sorry,” Aidan admitted, dazed and grinning as he let Leto gently break them apart. “I know you’re talking, but all I am hearing is _hi let’s make out_ , so you may want to start over.”

Leto’s low chuff of amusement felt almost as good as his hands sliding up Aidan’s sides. _Almost_. “I said that I have more questions,” he murmured. “Kissing is all well and good—”

“Kissing is very good; I am in favor of kissing.”

“— _but_ there are things I do not understand that I want you to explain.” He paused, moving back a step to study Aidan’s face. He was silent for a long minute, then reached out and very deliberately took Aidan’s hand in his. His other hand reached up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip.

Aidan’s eyes fluttered closed; then, grinning impulsively, he bit the meat of Leto’s thumb.

“ _Fastevas_ ,” Leto growled. He pushed his thumb into Aidan’s mouth, stroking it against the slick of his tongue. Aidan looked up through his lashes, shivering, and hollowed his cheeks as he _sucked_.

Leto’s cheeks were bright red and his eyes— Maker, the look in his eyes was almost enough to have Aidan dropping to his knees. “Venhedis, you _are_ a demon.” He tugged his hand free, shuddering. “This is…some sort of madness,” Leto added. His gaze was sweeping over Aidan’s features and his fingers were still tangled with his, grip tight. He looked as if he were swaying between a thousand and one different emotions: confusion, lust, possessiveness, wariness, longing, concern. “Or a delusion born from the concoction they gave me. You are not real.”

“I feel real,” Aidan countered, squeezing Leto’s fingers. “Don’t I?”

Leto reluctantly squeezed back. “You do, so I must be mad. Is the Fade always like this?”

Aidan cocked his head. “Oh, yeah,” he said in a too-casual voice. “I stumble across handsome elves and make out in gardens pretty much every night. It is—Hey!” he yelped when Leto yanked him close. One of Leto’s strong arms went around his waist, their entwined fists trapped between their bodies; Leto was _growling_. “I was being sarcastic!”

“You were being ridiculous,” Leto muttered, kissing Aidan’s jaw. He was practically bristling with possessive jealousy and…that shouldn’t have made Aidan’s knees as weak as it did. “You said you were _mine_.”

“I’m yours,” Aidan agreed, breathless. “There won’t ever be anyone else, promise.” _Daveth who?_

Leto bit the sensitive skin where jaw met neck. ” _Good_ ,” he said, dragging his teeth along Aidan’s skin. His tongue followed, teasing over the all-too-pleasant sting, making Aidan’s breath catch in his chest. 

He let his head fall back, baring his throat, heat coiling through him. “For the record,” Aidan murmured, voice so husky he barely recognized it as his own, “this isn’t going to answer any of your questions. Not that I’m complaining,” he added when Leto paused, teeth an incredible pressure against his neck. “Just, you know. Verbalizing the obvious.”

There was a long, weighty pause before Leto pulled back. His dark brows were pulled into another scowl and his cheeks were flushed with color. “Festis bei umo cana varum.” He let go of Aidan’s hand and pulled a full step away. Paused. Took another step back. “Do not give me that look,” he said, pointing. “Sit. You are safer when you are not within reach.”

Aidan laughed; that bright, effortless feeling of _joy_ was rising up inside of him again. He lifted both hands in a teasingly warding gesture and sank to the soft grass. “Is this better?”

Leto began stalking around him like an agitated cat. “It will do. So. You are a mage,” he added, pausing over the word as if it wasn’t one he heard often. “And Ferelden. Do you know what I am?”

 _That_ was enough to quench his high spirits. “I do,” Aidan said, sobering immediately. “Though I don’t know where you are beyond, very generally, Tevinter.”

Leto glanced at him briefly. He was rubbing at his forearm absently, as if cold—though of course the Fade felt as warm and clear as a Tevinter spring. “Yes,” he said. “I am somewhere new. I do not know the name of it. I was recently acquired by a magister—”

He stopped with a frown.

“Leto?” Aidan prompted gently.

“I feel strange,” Leto admitted.

Aidan flashed a grin, trying to lighten the mood for both of them. He hated thinking about Leto being a slave—about some strange man _owning_ him. “Do you need it kissed better?” he offered cheekily, fluttering his lashes for show, but Leto didn’t seem to notice: he was frowning down at his forearm, brows knit together. “Leto?”

Leto didn’t look up. “I feel strange,” he said again, rubbing his palm over his skin.

“Maybe you should sit down,” Aidan offered, rising to his knees. Could lyrium (because what else would the strange concoction Leto mentioned be?) cause an allergic reaction? “I’ll take a look, okay? Maybe I’ll be able to— _Leto_!”

The last came out as a shout, torn from him, as Leto suddenly staggered back with an _anguished_ cry. Aidan watched, horrified, as the other man was brought to his knees, _keening_ , body hunching instinctively over his arm. Blood— _blood_ , here, in the Fade—was all of a sudden streaming from his flesh as if he had been cut in a dozen different places. It spattered wetly across the grass, garishly bright.

Aidan was frozen in shock, unable to do more than stare as Leto suddenly reared back with a scream. Blood blossomed across the front of his plain homespun shirt in intricate loops and swirls—for a moment, it looked like embroidery picked out in red thread. And then, in the next breath, the blood seeped through and Leto was falling back, _writhing_ as slashes of red opened up across the arch of his neck, his _face_.

“ _Leto_!” Aidan sobbed. He lurched forward, momentary paralysis broken, and stumble-crawled toward him. Blood was seeping into his trousers, across his other arm as the markings spread—it was as if an invisible knife were carving deep grooves into Leto’s flesh, skin parting, _splitting open_ , oh Maker. “Leto, oh, oh Maker, Leto.” He reached for him, then hesitated, not wanting his touch to hurt him further—Leto was _screaming_ in agony, back arched off the ground, eyes squeezed shut. Aidan had never seen so much blood, had no idea what to _do_ , and it was all he could manage not to cry for help, knowing—

Fuck, _fuck_ , knowing that if he did, a desire demon would surely answer.

“Leto, _Leto_ , void, please, Leto.” He was crying, hiccoughing around each great, shuddery breath, _helpless_. He’d seen a man run through once, by chance, in a dark alleyway; Carver had pulled him away before he could take more than a step forward to help, hissing, “ _You’ll get caught, you idiot. You can’t help him._ ”

The man had bled out as his younger brother (who had gotten strong over the last few years, strong enough to overpower him in his panic) had dragged him away. His cries still haunted Aidan’s dreams sometimes, the pain in his voice chilling.

It was nothing on this.

He swiped at his eyes, dashing away tears as he fought to think of something he could _do_. He could go get Father—but no, there was no lyrium in the house, and by the time they found some, Leto could be… He could…

“Please, oh Maker, please, it’s okay, Leto, please, _please_ don’t, don’t die.” He could barely hear himself over Leto’s screams. The other boy was thrashing hard, howling as if he were being flayed from the inside. The ground was _sodden_ with his blood, soaking into the knees of Aidan’s robe; he was going to die right here, right before him.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ , Maker, no.

Aidan reached out, hesitated; his lanky frame was trembling with sobs. ” _Leto_ ,” he said, fighting to reach inside for healing magic, but despite his father’s belief that he’d be a great healer someday, that ability was still far too complex, too beyond his skill. He scrabbled for it anyway, trying to _rip_ it out of him. Fitful blue light briefly flickered around his spread fingers, then sputtered away; he cried out in frustrated anguish.

And then, unable to do more than try to comfort, Aidan reached down to catch Leto’s cheeks—the only part of him not brimming with gashes—between his palms.

“I love,” Aidan began.

And then the agony overtook him.

He fell back, blindly, sucking in a desperate breath as bone-deep _pain_ rocketed through him. It lashed over his skin, slicing down to the bone in glittering waves, enough to send his mind gibbering into darkness. He couldn’t—he couldn’t _think_ , couldn’t _breathe_. Aidan slammed his shoulders against the blood-soaked earth and arched with it, sobbing as red lines broke across his flesh and the world flared blue-white.

Next to him, Leto’s cries became quieter as he unconsciously shared his pain across their fledgling bond—and together, they were branded in a ritual neither of them could have survived alone.


	9. Bethany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Moderately graphic description of blood and light gore. (Lyrium ritual.)

The Fade was still. Clouds streamed across the sky in a blur of color and light, undulating shadows forming brief shapes overhead before twisting away like smoke on the breeze. Sunlight warmed her skin, though she knew by now it was all an illusion.

Nothing here was real. Nothing but the demons and her own awareness of herself and—

“Psst, Bethany.”

And _nothing else_.

She sat under an apple tree that used to grow just outside her window. Mother baked tarts with those apples in the Fall, and Bethany and Carver would make a game of it every morning to see who could collect the most from off the sloping hillside.

“ _Bethany_.”

Father had been forced to dig up the tree two seasons ago, when the roots threatened the foundations of their little cottage outside of Denerim. Still, here in the Fade, she could have her apples again.

“I know you can hear me.”

Bethany frowned down at the tangle of yarn around her fingers and let the threads go lax. _Focus_ , she told herself, biting at the inside of her mouth. She hooked her thumbs and pinkies back into the rough wool and began weaving the ends through a series of intricate loops, the way Aidan had taught her. Here was a cat’s cradle. Here was a butterfly. Jacob’s ladder. Dragon wings.

The voice moved a little closer. “Wanna know how I know you can hear me?”

 _Drat_ it, she’d gotten tangled again. Bethany swallowed back a sigh and unwound the yarn, starting from scratch. She still didn’t have her brother’s easy dexterity, but her fingers were small and there was plenty of time to pick up the knack.

Closer. “I know you do.”

It was important to learn these little games of focus because— Because focus meant _control_ and control meant—

A breath against her cheek. “That little blush staining your skin gives you away every time. It means you hear me talking to you and can’t help but think _now there’s the dashing lad I’m going to marry someday_.”

Bethany dropped the tangled yarn with an aggrieved sigh. “ _Maybe_ I’m blushing because I’m embarrassed for you,” she retorted, twisting around to look at Anders. 

She realized her mistake a second too late, but he was already pulling back with a broad, dazzling grin, golden hair falling into his eyes. “Ha!” he said, flopping onto the grass next to her. “I knew you could hear me.”

“Oh, _knickerweasles_.”

“Well enough that you’re even cursing like me; well done.” He propped up onto his elbow, long legs crossed at the ankles. His brilliant smile was infectious, as always. “Though I’m pretty sure I should be appalled by the way I’m corrupting innocents.”

“I’m not _that_ innocent,” Bethany protested, swatting at her Voice’s shoulder. She was ten years old and well and thoroughly tired of being the baby of the house. “Even if you _are_ ancient.”

Anders just laughed and rolled back to stare up at the sky, fingers threaded beneath his skull. “Ancient and growing more decrepit by the day. In eight years, when we run away together, you’ll no doubt have to hoist me over your shoulders and hobble me up the Anderfels.”

“ _If_ I’ve decided you’re worth the trouble.” She folded aside the yarn and turned toward him, reaching automatically to thread her fingers through his hair. The first few times she’d come across her Voice in the Fade, she’d been too shy to do more than watch from the shadows and go tearing away whenever he so much as looked at her. It had taken long months of patient coaxing for Anders to convince her to creep near, and even longer before she’d permit him to take her tiny hand between his bigger ones and lift her fingers for a courtly kiss.

He was always like that, Bethany mused, smiling to herself as Anders unconsciously arched into her caress like a big, tawny cat. The older boy was gentle and teasing and warm. He reminded her of Aidan in a lot of ways, with his endless wells of empathy, and Carver, a bit, too—especially on those rare times Anders talked about the Circle, and his jaw began to tighten with barely concealed fury.

But he was something else, too, something that was all Anders and all _hers_ ; she didn’t think she could love him more without bursting open at the seams.

And yet her father had been very clear that she was never to seek Anders out in the Fade.

Bethany frowned, fingers stilling. It didn’t seem fair. Aidan could look for _his_ Voice any time he wanted, but because both she and Anders were mages, it was _dangerous_ for them to meet. Anders didn’t seem to put much stock in that, but Father had been adamant: the two of them together risked drawing the attention of demons the way a mage alone might not.

“Hey.”

She startled at the light flick of fingers against her wrist, meeting warm golden-brown eyes. Anders was smiling up at her, brows lifted into a familiar inverted V. “No long thoughts,” he said, reaching up to tug one of her black curls. “Not when we’re together. Remember?”

“No long thoughts,” Bethany agreed. She began to stroke his hair again, fingers tangling in the thick strands. “It’s just that…you probably shouldn’t be here. Father wouldn’t like it.”

“I probably shouldn’t do half the things I do,” Anders quipped easily. He paused when he caught her expression, however, moving up onto one elbow to study her intently. “Hey,” he murmured again, tugging her hand down. His big fingers enveloped hers, thumb pressed against the meat of her palm in a way that sent a wave of pure love crashing through her. “It’s going to be okay, Bethy. I’m not going to let a demon get you.”

Bethany ducked her head, pleased and almost shy; she wanted to kiss him, but she knew he wouldn’t like it. Not yet. Not until she was older. “I know,” she said. “I just don’t like lying to Father.”

“Well, _technically_ you aren’t lying.” His slow, crooked grin made her grin in return; there was no fighting it. “You aren’t seeking me out in the Fade if I do all the looking.”

“And when he asks whether I’ve seen you?” she teased, flipping his hand over and threading their fingers together.

He squeezed her hand. “Would you rather I cover your eyes?”

“Mm. It may improve the view…”

“A dagger!” Anders pulled up, laughing, honey-gold hair spilling around his angular face. “The lady sends a _dagger_ through my heart! What a cruel woman you are, Mistress Hawke.”

Bethany giggled, ducking her head; she could feel the blush stealing up her cheeks and making her ears hot, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She _loved_ being with her Voice like this. She loved the playful way he talked to her, the easy banter they fell into so effortlessly. She loved _him_. “Well it’s too bad you’re not allowed to marry anyone else, _Master_ A—”

And all at once, the world shattered.

Bethany clapped her hands over her ears at the sudden _piercing_ cry. It came from all around, endless and echoing and filled with, _Maker_ , so much agony. Raw. Ripping. _Bloody_. Pain.

“Anders!” she gasped, staggering up to her knees. The sound was splitting her skull; it was echoing through her blood and bones and shredding the sinew until she was nothing but grit and ash and that reverberating, _terrible_ scream. “Anders! _Anders_!”

“Bethany!” His hands were on her, gripping her shoulders, but she could barely feel him. Everything inside her was ground down to that one, long, knife’s-edge howl. She could barely breathe, couldn’t _think_. She tried to rise to her feet but she was being dragged down, knees crumpling again and again under her weight as that _cry_ , that unearthly, terrible _cry_ split the Fade and shattered the pieces around her.

“Maker’s _breath_ , Bethany, _what is it_?”

She didn’t, she couldn’t, Maker, she was— She was _fracturing_ , she was ripping at the seams, she was—Bethany shoved Anders away, finally staggering up; the rough bark of the tree ghosted from beneath her palms as the Fade lurched under her feet, going indistinct. Shadows broke in waves around her knees, and oh Andraste, she _knew_ that voice.

“Aidan!” Bethany cried, clawing from sleep into something just as nightmarish.

The little cottage was in an uproar. The curtain blocking off Aidan’s bed had been ripped away, rod hanging off its brackets and dragging across the floor. Father was crouched by his bedside, trying to grapple with his writhing son, and Mother was standing over his shoulder with her hands to her mouth, eyes huge in a parchment-pale face.

Aidan’s screams were _terrible_. Guttural, aching, they seemed to rip from his body in endless bloody waves. His eyes were open, but only the whites were showing, and there was _red_ on his lips, staining his teeth. Blood splattered the wall in a fine mist as he strained against Father’s grasp, and Mother cried, “Malcolm, _his arms_!” with sick horror.

Bethany staggered out of her bed, stumbling near. Carver—unnoticed standing at the foot of her bed—caught her wrist before she could take more than a step and dragged her back.

“Let _go_!” she hissed, turning on him, but her twin caught her other hand and yanked it down before she could shove him away. He was big—big for his age and just big in general, muscles already pronounced in his upper arms and broad chest—and try as she might, Bethany couldn’t overpower him. “I have to— He _needs me_.”

“ _No_. We’d just be in the way.” Carver risked letting go of one of her wrists, earning a fist to the eye for his efforts, and caught her around the waist instead. He hoisted her up when she tried desperately kicking at his shins, and from her sudden height, Bethany could see more of Aidan over Father’s shoulders.

His skin was pale against the sodden red of his nightshirt, black curls tangled over his forehead. He was struggling, _screaming_ , as if someone was holding him down to _torture_ instead of heal. The bright light of Father’s spell cast over his twisting body, and Bethany could actually _see_ the lines opening up against his skin, could see swirling patterns parting flesh and digging to the bone as her older brother arched his spine and sobbed in a breath and bled—

 _Maker_ —

 _Everywhere_. There was blood _everywhere_ , soaking his shift through, staining the mattress brilliant red, spattering the walls and windowpane and dirt floor in an endless rain. Bethany stopped struggling against Carver and drew in a shocked, horrified breath. It broke on a wordless sob, catching deep in her chest. The whole bloody spectacle went hazy with hot tears.

“Come on,” Carver murmured in her ear. Bethany shook her head, but he just tightened his grip on her, trying to pull her away. “ _Come on_ ,” he said. She tried to dig in her heels, but Carver just dragged her from the little bedroom and out into the main room. There was no door to close, no way to muffle the horrible sounds of their brother—

What? Being tortured? _Dying_?

“Oh Maker,” she gasped, tears spilling down her bloodless cheeks. Bethany shoved at Carver’s chest viciously hard, then grabbed handfuls of his shift and surged close, trembling. The look on Aidan’s face, the sight of those cuts opening across his skin, deeper and faster than Father could heal… She’d never get that image out of her mind. It would chase her dreams for the rest of her life. “Is he… _Carver_ , what is _happening_?”

Carver wrapped strong arms around her, keeping her close. She could feel his heart racing in his chest, belying the forced evenness of his voice. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we’re going to have to come up with something.”

She pulled back to stare at him, confused, but he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t even looking toward Aidan’s room, where those horrible sounds continued, on and on, as if they would never end. Instead, Carver’s eyes were fixed on the front door, his dark brows pulled together into a worried frown.

“What,” Bethany began, following his gaze, before she suddenly understood.

Someone was bound to hear Aidan’s cries. The Hawke farm was as far from the city as possible while still remaining within its protection, but even so, there were neighbors, almost a whole village’s worth; so close to the capitol, it was impossible to escape into complete anonymity, and someone was _sure_ to hear the anguished screams ripping through the silent night.

Someone was _sure_ to wonder. To ask questions. To become _suspicious_.

Carver met Bethany’s horrified gaze and nodded sharply. “We have a few minutes at most,” he said, “to come up with a story, and Mother and Father—”

“Mother and Father need to be with Aidan,” Bethany agreed. She stepped back, rubbing her palms over her face. Had she been curled up happily beneath her apple tree in the Fade just a few minutes ago? It felt like _ages_ had passed, until she was as ancient as the ground beneath her feet. She drew in an unsteady breath, fighting against the sob that wanted to break free. It sounded as if Aidan was _dying_ in there, and Maker, all that blood. She’d never seen so much blood in her life. Even a butchering was clean; _this_ had been skin splitting open on an invisible blade again and again, flesh gone ragged and pulpy like the inside of a rotten fruit.

She couldn’t think like that.

She had to _focus_.

“Build up the fire,” Bethany said, shoving dark hair back from her face. “Get it roaring, and put a pot on, like we’re boiling water. I’ll get Mother’s herbs.”

“What’s the plan?” Carver said even as he moved to do as he was told. He pushed back the screen and grabbed the iron poker, teasing at the coals burning low in the hearth.

Bethany ran to grab Mother’s bag of herbs and simples, spreading them out across the rough dining table. There were empty bottles cloudy with age and re-use. Elfroot and crushed flowers and neatly wound linens. She nearly knocked over an empty bottle of healing draughts—the only full ones were already in the bedroom with Aidan, she was sure, though they would be nowhere near as effective as Father’s magic—hands trembling as she ripped the dried heads off the stalks and dropped them into the mortar. The flaking ends scattered across the table and onto the floor, but that didn’t matter—it _helped_ , even, to give the impression that she was hastily grinding another batch of potion.

“Aidan was bitten,” she said, beginning to grind. The sweet, unmistakable odor filled the small room just as Carver got the newly fed log to catch fire. “By, oh, some manner of viper. The poison has made him delirious with pain, and Father is…”

“Father is trying to leech it out,” Carver said, catching onto her desperate story eagerly. “Mother’s with him because…because he’s scared and she’s Mother, and we’re…” 

He turned to look at her.

Bethany dragged in an unsteady breath; the screaming was going to drive her _mad_. Her own body ached in helpless empathy, and she would have given anything to be able to smooth back Aidan’s hair and sooth away whatever it was that had overtaken him. “We’re making fresh potion to help flush it out,” she said.

“Right,” Carver agreed. He sounded relieved. 

It wasn’t a story that could hold much scrutiny, especially if this continued ( _Oh, Maker, it couldn’t go on much longer; could it?_ ) but it was the best they could do. It would _have_ to do, Bethany realized with a sinking heart less than a minute later when a fist pounded on the cottage door.

“A viper,” she hissed to Carver as he crossed the room.

“I’ve _got it_.” He paused at the door as if saying a quick prayer, then shoved up the latch and pulled it open no more than half a foot. “Good evening, serrah. We’re, ah, sorry about the—”

One of their neighbors, Mistress Pembroke, pushed at the door. “Is the entire household being _murdered_?” she demanded. She’d barely pulled on a decent gown over her nightshift and her graying hair hung loose about her waist. She looked like a witch of the wilds, one of the apostate women rumored to live south of Lothering. Bethany had never hated her so much.

 _You’re not here to help_ , she thought, grinding the elfroot with more force than necessary. Aidan’s endless screams ripped through her over and over again, tearing at the crumbling walls of her composure. Bethany had to bite the inside of her mouth _hard_ , hard enough to taste blood, to keep from bursting into tears.

“…from a snake bite,” Carver was saying. He had one hand firmly on the back of the door, muscles straining as he kept the woman from pushing her way inside. Bethany could see another shape moving just beyond her shoulder and heard a man’s voice call, _Is it bandits?_

“I have never heard such carryings-on over the bite of a serpent before,” Mistress Pembroke said. She leaned as much of her body as she could into the house, peering at Bethany with curious, bright eyes. “Did anyone get a good look at the beast?”

Bethany met her gaze flatly. “Yes,” she said.

“And?”

 _Go away_. “And Father ground it to dust.”

“They’re leeching the poison now,” Carver added, both hands on the door now. He was struggling to keep it from flying open; through the gap, Bethany saw another woman join the small group of neighbors. “Please, we’re all right here. Please just—”

And all at once, the screams went silent.

Bethany froze, pestle in her hand, eyes flown wide. Carver’s back had stiffened and his fingers were curved against the door in a fist, as if he wanted to slam them into something, someone, _anything_. They could hear the sound of Mother’s quiet sobbing drifting through the curtained doorway and _nothing else_.

Her knees were shaking again; she had to grab the edge of the table to keep upright. “Just _go_ ,” Bethany said, not bothering to keep the desperation out of her voice. What did it matter if their neighbors grew suspicious and called the Templars if Aidan was dead? “Just get out of here. Whatever’s happened, we’ll deal with it ourselves: we don’t _need you_.”

“You heard her,” Carver said in a voice so low and gruff she barely recognized it. “Our mother has this under control, and we have all the potions we need.”

“It sounds like someone should call a laysister,” a man said, and Bethany swore she heard another murmur _Templar_.

She supposed, no matter what desperate ruse they tried to pull together, it would always come back to that. The Chantry had trained the smallfolk to see illegal magic everywhere. “Please,” Bethany murmured, digging her nails into the table to keep steady on her feet. “They are leeching the poison. Just…go.”

Carver was pushing the door shut. “We thank you very much for your neighborly concern,” he said with forced politeness. “We’re sorry to have woken you.” Inch by inch, he pushed the small crowd of nervous villagers back. Bethany bowed her head, then glanced toward the curtained-off bedroom. Father was murmuring something softly; Mother’s rasping sobs made her whole body _ache_.

Oh, Maker, what had happened to her brother?

The sound of the door shutting and the latch being thrown startled her back to herself. Bethany met her twin’s eyes across the narrow room, seeing the bleak worry echoed back at her. “I don’t think they bought it,” he murmured. “Not all of them.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She pushed away from the table, stumbling a step before finding her balance. “We should—”

“Go on,” Carver said. “Just don’t get in the way.” He moved to pull one of the rough-woven harvest bags from the shelf and crouched before the larder. Bethany paused to watch him begin to pack away their stored food with jerky movements. They’d fled from town to town often enough that she didn’t have to wonder what he was doing. The bare necessities would be gathered first, then the luxuries, then anything else they could manage.

Carver bent his head, shoulders hunched, and plowed through what had to be done to keep his family safe.

Bethany swallowed, wanting to rush to him and fling her arms around his neck, but the soft sounds drifting from the other room drew her like a lodestone. She twitched aside the curtain and moved into the little room, already bracing for whatever it was she would find there.

Aidan was collapsed back in unconsciousness ( _or death; please Maker let it not be death_ ), black curls plastered to his wan brow, limbs tensed and twisted beneath his sodden nightclothes. Mother was at his head, crying quietly, soothing back his hair and dabbing carefully at the wells of blood still oozing from the deep red lines curving across his body. Father had managed to close them a little, but Bethany could still see the pulpy mass of flesh beneath the torn skin. If Aidan survived ( _please, please, please_ ) no doubt they would leave scars.

She took a tentative step into the room. “Is he…?” she whispered, then stuttered to a stop, unable to finish the thought.

Father didn’t look up. Blue light flickered around his fingers and he looked _exhausted_ , nearly ready to drop. Mother just drew in a serrated breath and carefully dabbed away the blood beading on the strangely ornate cuts swirling across Aidan’s chin, down his throat. It looked almost like a Dalish tattoo. “Mother?”

“He’s alive. It was— Close.”

 _Close_. Bethany covered her mouth, fighting back the low, horrified noise that wanted to break free. “What was it? Was it— Was it a demon?” she managed, voice beginning to tremble. A horrible thought began to form. Had _she_ called a demon, somehow? Father had told her not to seek out Anders; he’d _warned_ her that it was dangerous. What if—

If—

What if _she_ had called a demon, and it had found Aidan instead? Could that happen? She didn’t _know_ , but Maker, if it was her fault, if she had done this—

She could have gotten him killed.

Aidan looked so small and young and fragile laying there; a delicate creature of flesh and blood and bone and not the bigger-than-life older brother she had always known. He looked _breakable_ , mortal, in a way she had never considered before. The entire Hawke family lived under constant threat thanks to magic, and Bethany had been taught to fear and loathe demons and Templars in equal measure, but the danger had never seemed truly _real_ to her before. It was a game. It was a lark.

It was a golden-haired boy laughing under an apple tree.

And Aidan could have been taken from her. He might still be taken.

Bethany inched forward carefully, mindful not to get in her father’s way, and crouched at the foot of Aidan’s bed. She reached out and tentatively touched the edge of the mattress, closing her eyes tight at the clawing sense of horror mounting inside her small chest.

She ducked forward, shoulders hunched around her ears, young and miserable and so very afraid. “I’m sorry,” Bethany whispered, tears hot on her lashes. She didn’t know what else to do. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”


	10. Anders

Anders jerked awake with a strangled cry.

The apprentice’s dorm was quiet and dim; fitful moonlight filtered through high windows, bars casting striations of light along the cold stone floor. He could hear the steady breathing of two dozen of his fellow mages, rising in an unsteady hum like a badly tuned orchestra. In the bed directly opposite his, Jowan rolled onto his side and muttered in dreams. On his other side, Anah sighed into her pillow. His cry hadn’t woken them, thank the Maker: they were lost in the Fade, tucked away safe inside their friendly prison.

And somewhere, just outside Denerim, Bethany needed him.

Anders pushed aside his covers and rose, swaying unsteadily on his feet. The shock of it was still dragging at him—her _face_ , her _cries_ —but he pushed the panic away with a frustrated noise. He couldn’t let worry distract him now. Anders dug his fingers into his hair and darted his gaze around the long dormitory. He needed to _think_.

The beds were set at angles to each other, forming a near maze. He could walk it in his sleep, but the chance of being caught was very high. All it would take was a single stumble in the darkness, or an apprentice woken to make water, and he’d be found out. Not to mention the Templars roamed the halls in regular shifts from lights out to dawn, and a mage out of bed couldn’t be anything but deeply suspicious.

This was madness; there were better, safer ways to make his escape.

But Bethany needed him _now_ , and he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, be kept from her side.

Anders glanced at the trunk at the foot of his bed where his robes were kept…but no, the creaking of hinges could give him away. He’d have to leave the Circle wearing his nightclothes. The staves were locked away at night, of course, so he’d be defenseless too. Perhaps, if he made it to The Spoiled Princess, he could slip into one of the rooms and borrow (steal) something to wear. A man walking the king’s highway in nothing but his smallclothes and long white shift was sure to attract attention. But what of boots? There was no guarantee he would manage to find something that would fit; was he to walk all those miles on bare and bleeding soles?

It didn’t matter. He was wasting time.

Anders wet his lips and silently moved past Jowan and down the narrow aisle made by their beds. The stones were cold against his bare feet and the ends of his shift brush across the ground in a soft _whisk whisk_. He grabbed a fistful of the trailing fabric and slipped around the first knot of beds, careful to keep from brushing against the high posts in the dark.

There was a room, halfway around the curving tower, with a window that opened over the wide surface of the lake. It was a long ways down, but a drainpipe, several skinny ledges, and fistfuls of climbing vines were just enough for a man with the reflexes of a cat and the wit of a Hurlock to make it to safety. He’d tested several escape routes over the years—ever since he’d looked up one night in the Fade to meet a pair of startled brown eyes. Before he’d met his Voice, Anders had hated the Circle but had been content enough to live within its walls. After, hearing Bethany’s stories, knowing she was _out there_ free as the birds who flew across the placid lake to nest in the far branches…

He’d have to make his way to her someday. There was no question. And so he’d prepared, learning the tricks of the Circle, making trial runs to the far shore and back again before he could be caught. He’d always assumed his final, true escape would come on the heels of careful planning. There was his phylactery to consider, and the long weeks it would take to make it to the capitol. There was a stave to steal and hide, and money to stockpile, and _plans_. There were so many _plans_ to be made.

 _This is madness_ , Anders thought, one palm pressed tight against the stone archway as he strained to hear movement in the halls. The Circle was quiet around him, as if the whole world were holding its breath. He could hear nothing but the frantic thrum of his own heart.

_Go. Go, go, go._

Anders darted out into the hall, one hand holding his long shift out of his way, the other trailing along the wall. The hall was pitch dark between distant oases of guttering candlelight. His lungs felt small and tight as he hurried along its outer curve, straining to hear the warning scrape of a Templar’s footfall. Nothing. There was nothing.

His fingers hit the empty pocket of the first doorway; he kept count in his head, picturing the layout of rooms. There were three more dormitories before he’d reach the students’ solar.

_Two._

Anders hurried his pace, then slowed again when the slap of his bare feet echoed down the hall. _Knickerweasles, be careful, you twit_ , he thought breathlessly. He passed under one of the few candelabra with a flame still dancing fitfully on its wick. The light was queasy-pale; he felt exposed beneath its soft glow, as if there were eyes in the darkness tracking his every move. As if ( _Maker take me_ ) the demons had crept from the Fade to watch his progress. It was a ridiculous fear, but he hurried past nonetheless, shoulders relaxing incrementally when he was again in darkness.

_Three._

One more to go. Just one more to go. _Come on, come on._

_Four._

Anders could practically taste the fresh air, could feel the cold water of Lake Calenhad closing over his head. The next door would be the solar; he was going to _make it_. He let himself draw an unsteady breath, picturing Bethany’s heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes (not filled with some nameless terror the way they had been the last he saw her, but how they always looked at him—sweet and a little shy and bright with laughter. Maker, she was so…everything, _everything_ , Bethany Hawke was _everything_ to him. She made him laugh, she made him care, she made him feel like there was somewhere on this wide green world that could be _home_ for him. Ever since he’d left the Anderfels, he’d felt angry and adrift. The Circle was a dark cage around him. Memories of his own family were brittle and fading. But Bethany was a bright flame in the dark, and it was finally time for him to go to her) and—

_Clank._

Anders scrambled to a stop, sucking in a silent breath. Just around the next curve, the unmistakable sound of steel scraping against steel came again, echoing as the Templar moved.

_Clank. Clank._

He stumbled back, flailing against cold stone. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was caught—he _couldn’t_ think about it; there was no time for anything but a violent rush of panic as he turned and darted for the nearest open doorway. It was several yards back—eight? Nine? More? Maker, he should have been paying attention—and lost in the darkness. The glow of the Templar’s candle crept around the bend of the hall and Anders sucked in a panicked breath; he _ran_.

_Clank, clank, clank._

Anders skid through the doorway, the squeal of metal close on his heels. The long dorm was filled with apprentices in their bunks, just like his own. They lay curled on their sides or flopped on their stomachs, arms dangling over the edge of narrow mattresses. Breaths rose and fell in concert, and the Templar was reaching the open doorway.

 _Maker_. Anders jerked back toward the privy chamber just in time, one foot tangling in his dragging robes. His arms pinwheeled as he fought for his balance, stumbling uselessly, desperately; his elbow caught against the edge of a privacy screen, sending it scraping across the stone floor.

The metal clanging stopped; Anders held his breath. Then, horrified, he saw the light of the Templar’s candle move into the dormitory after him.

He was caught. He was _done_.

There came a soft rustle from a nearby bed and sudden fingers closing around Anders’ wrist. He half-turned, startled, to meet a pair of brilliant blue eyes. The girl lifted a finger to her lips, then _shoved_ him back into the further darkness of the privy. He caught himself deftly, watching as she straightened narrow shoulders and moved out into the main room.

“Oh!” she gasped as she rounded the corner, voice low and throaty with sleep and surprise. She was _good_. “Oh, oh, Ser, I am so sorry. I did not see you there.”

There was an awkward silence before a gruff voice answered, “Solona—I mean, Mistress Amell—I mean—what are you doing about?”

“I woke to make water,” she murmured. Anders could imagine the pretty pink flush that would be sweeping across her cheeks at those words. He’d seen it often enough; Solona was a friend of his and Jowan’s and often came to sit at his bunk. He could see her so clearly if he tried: petite and verging on the borderland of being a little too curvy, her kind face and huge blue eyes hiding a sharp mind and a will as strong as dragonbone. “I stumbled against the screen in the dark; I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

Metal creaked as the man shifted. “No—that is, well, I am only glad it is nothing. That you are not hurt, that is.”

She laughed a little, breathless. “Oh, no. Thank you for your concern, but as you can see, I am quite well. If the moon were only a little brighter, perhaps I wouldn’t go charging about blind as an old mabari, knocking over everything in my wake.”

“I could leave my candle with you? I would be happy to. I can see quite well in the dark, and I would hate to see you— That is, I wouldn’t want you to— It would be a terrible shame if something were to— Ah.”

Anders made a face. Was the Templar actually _flirting_? No, surely not. And _surely_ Solona was not laughing quietly again, warm and sweet, as if she _welcomed_ his attention. Anders’s stomach turned, and he glowered down at his bare feet, tangled blond hair falling across his eyes. It was one thing to tolerate the Templars—they held all the power, and sometimes defiance wasn’t worth the risk—but it was another thing entirely to be _friendly_ with them.

_What the void are you doing, Solona?_

“That is kind of you, Ser,” she murmured in that way she had, low and husky and soft enough you couldn’t help but find yourself leaning in to hear, “but as you can see, my bed is just a few steps away. I do not think I will get into any mishaps with so short a journey.”

“True. True. Ah. Well, then, in that case…I bid you goodnight. Solona. Mistress Amell. Ah.”

“Goodnight. May sleep be sweet when it finds you.” And on the heels of _that_ revolting exchange came the soft _whisk_ of covers being pulled aside followed by the heavy _clank clank_ of the heavily armored Templar shuffling awkwardly away. The light faded across the floor; darkness fell.

Anders stood waiting, counting the seconds beneath his breath as the clang of metal faded. His heart, winging like a frightened bird in his chest, slowly began to still. That had been…very, very close. He let his head fall back as he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker.

And then a palm pressed against his chest, shoving him back a step. “ _You_ ,” a low voice hissed, and Anders startled, looking down into a pair of intense blue eyes. Solona’s braid had come partially undone in sleep, wisps of black falling about round cheeks. She was shorter than him by over a head, long ends of her nightshift puddled on the stone; her full lips were pursed in annoyance. “Andraste’s flaming sword, Anders, do you realize just how much trouble you could have landed yourself in? Landed _both_ of us in, Maker take me. What were you thinking?”

He snorted. “I was thinking it was _such_ a lovely evening for a stroll.” He barely swallowed his startled yelp when she balled up her fist and hit him—hard!—on the shoulder. “Hey!”

“This isn’t a game, Anders!”

“Funny you should say that when you just played it so _very_ well!”

Solona Amell glowered up at him, practically crackling with mingled fury and concern. It was a palpable presence, like an aura around them. Anders couldn’t help but be impressed. Small, curvy, almost delicate she may be, but the sudden fierce _glare_ of her personality was like looking straight into the sun; it left him dazzled. 

He couldn’t stand against it.

“You’re right,” Anders said, relaxing. He dropped his chin, shoulders rounding in defeat. “I’m sorry. I could have gotten you into a lot of trouble; _thank you._ ”

Solona’s mouth tightened, eyes searching his face, but then she nodded, relaxing back as well. He could practically feel her anger abating. He’d always had a strange feeling around Solona—a pricking at the edge of his consciousness, as if he were somehow aware of her in a way that should have been impossible. Only a mage’s Voice could be felt; it wasn’t anything like that (it was a candle’s flame compared to what he felt around Bethany), but he’d still never been able to shake it. He could practically feel her fury dying, being replaced by the graceful choking vines and blossoming flowers of true concern. “It was nothing,” Solona murmured. “But you’re going to need to wait here for the next quarter-hour before trying to make your way back.”

Anders hesitated, then wet his lips. This was as dangerous as the Templar, but… Maker, if he didn’t trust her, who would he trust? “I’m not going to make my way back,” he admitted. “I’m leaving.”

Her head jerked up, black braid swinging. In the darkness, her heart-shaped face almost reminded him of Bethany’s. “What?” Solona said. She held up a hand before he could answer, glancing sharply over her shoulder; the dormitory was silent. He could see the moment of indecision on her face before she snagged the trailing end of his sleeve and pulled him deeper into the privy chamber. There were folded screens along the walls and big copper tubs. Solona led him to the far corner of the room, angled so they had a clear view of the open archway. Her fingers, when they brushed his wrist, were very warm. “All right,” she murmured, letting go and turning to face him. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I’m leaving,” he said again, as if that was answer enough. At her narrowed brows, Anders added, “I planned to go through the solar, but Ser Metalbritches stopped me before I could reach it, Maker damn him.”

“Don’t say that.” Solona reached up to tangle her fingers in the end of her long braid. Her brows were knit together in worry.

“Why? Is he one of your favorites? Can you _pick_ a favorite Templar any more than you can pick a favorite poison?”

She frowned up at him. “He’s kind,” she challenged. At Anders’s incredulous scoff, she added, “He’s kinder than _you_. They’re not all evil, Anders.”

“That’s like saying ogres are just misunderstood Qunari, and that Qunari are just overgrown mabari. They’re _Templars,_ Solona. They joined an order intent on butchering us if we step so much as a toe out of line. They keep us from our families, keep us from our Voices, keep us from the _world_ just because we’re born with magic. How is that not evil?” She flinched, but he was angry now; it didn’t take much for the frustration he always carried tucked up inside his breast to come spilling out. “How can you even think of defending them? I know for a fact that you were ripped away from your own family. They would keep you from your _Voice_ , Solona. They are the _enemy._ ”

“Not all of them! No, wait,” she added when he would have continued. “Anders, _please_. You don’t understand. I know they’re not all evil. I know it’s not like that. Some of them have no more choice than we do.”

“Oh, bloody void take that,” he spat.

But she wasn’t finished. “It’s true. My Voice—he’s a Templar. At least,” she added at his shocked noise, “he’s training to be one. He doesn’t want to be there, Anders. He didn’t choose that life, and he would give anything to get out of it, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s trapped, just as we’re trapped—and if he was forced into the Order, I can’t help but think… Maker, Anders, how many of the men who watch us truly believe in what we’re taught? How many are only here because there was nowhere else to go?”

He didn’t want to hear that; he didn’t want to give a moment’s benefit of the doubt to a _Templar_. “You are too bloody kindhearted for your own good,” Anders said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You already have Jowan attached to your arse like a leech. Someday you’re going to regret your…your boundless fucking capacity for empathy.”

Her lips thinned. “Maybe,” Solona said, “but not tonight. You’re going to your Voice, aren’t you?”

 _Bethany_. All at once, the anger faded away and all he could hear was her cries echoing in his ears. Something had happened to frighten her; something had gone terribly wrong. “I am,” he said. There was no use lying. “I have to.”

She searched his face, and he could practically feel her heart aching for him. _Don’t_ , he wanted to tell her. _Keep your heartbreak for yourself; you’re going to need it._

“Okay. I know a way out. But you have to promise me that if you are caught—”

“I won’t tell anyone you helped me,” Anders cut in immediately. “I wouldn’t.”

His friend reached up to place a soft hand on his shoulder. Her full lips twisted into a wry smile, dimples flashing deep on her smooth, round cheeks. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask you. I want you to promise that if you are caught, you won’t fight them. Don’t give them reason to make you Tranquil, Anders—not even for whomever she may be.”

 _She’s worth it,_ he almost said. But he just swallowed. “You drive a hard bargain, _Mistress Amell_.”

“Anders…”

“All right,” he promised, letting one of his hands cover hers. The minutes were ticking by and he was desperately aware of time slipping away. Besides, it was easy enough to agree to her terms when he had no plans of being caught. “Show me your clever escape route and I promise you I will not fight.”

She nodded, turning her hand to squeeze his fingers. “You’ll have to be silent,” she murmured. Then, “Follow me.”

Anders caught her before she could pull away, tugging her close. Solona didn’t resist the embrace, sinking against him and wrapping her arms tight around his waist. Anders tucked his chin against the crown of her dark hair and closed his eyes; he relaxed into the supple curves of her body, let himself be lulled and, oddly, comforted by the rise and fall of her breaths. Her scent rose around him in a haze of vanilla and violets, and he filled his lungs with her. Then he kissed her temple and pulled away. “Since I’m not going to be seeing you again,” Anders said, voice hitching in his throat, “good luck with your stupid Templar.”

She laughed and lightly punched his shoulder. He was going to miss that, too. “Good luck with your mangy hide,” she said. Then Solona grabbed Anders’s hand again and tugged him back toward the dormitory, one finger pressed to her lips, lashes flickering as she scanned the darkness. She was going to help him reach his Voice; he’d never loved her so much.

And if all went well, he’d never see her again.

Solona’s face was the _first_ he saw, grave and hurting, when he was dragged half-frozen and bleeding through the doors of the Circle.

And the Templar’s was the _last_ he saw as the cell door swung shut, leaving him alone with his failure. Somewhere leagues away, Bethany Hawke was bundled up in the back of a wagon, holding her unconscious brother close as her family fled the mob gathering across the peaceful Denerim fields.

They escaped, just barely, into the unknown—and Anders was left in darkness.


	11. Carver

He was going to go bloody mad; there was no help for it.

Carver scowled down at his rucksack. He’d been trying to pack goods for trade, count out coins, and make mental lists for the past quarter-hour, but it was nearly impossible to concentrate. Even with all the space their latest home afforded them, he felt constantly overwhelmed by his stupid family. The cottage just outside Lothering was the biggest the Hawke family had ever been able to afford. There were three separate rooms _plus_ a larder built deep into the earth. It remained cool even as the rest of the cottage warmed, allowing them to store food in everything but the height of summer. Mother was down there now, sorting through preserves. Her low, fretful murmur had his teeth on edge. Three rooms just wasn’t enough to escape it.

Father was out in the fields, of course. Carver had offered to help with the harvest—he’d practically _begged_ to be given a job to do—but Father had gently rebuffed him. Why, only the Maker knew; some days Carver was angry enough to think Father simply wanted an excuse to get out of the house and away from his family for as many hours as possible. If he had a hand in the fields, would that not mean he’d be forced to quit them long before nightfall?

The shame of that thought just made Carver angrier.

His stupid, bloody family was driving him stupid, bloody insane. That’s all there was to it. Mother fretted and fussed until Carver thought he might scream; Father was gone as often as he could be; Bethany was exhausted and listless from nights spent trying to evade her Voice in the Fade; and Aidan…

Carver paused, hands stilling, and glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

Aidan had never been quite the same since that night.

He was sitting by the window now, gazing silently out across the fields. Aidan had always been obnoxiously bright and full of life. He was the kind of older brother who grabbed you by the sleeve and yanked you in for dramatically exuberate affection, deliberately ruffling feathers (and messy black hair) with a brilliant laugh. He sat with Bethany curled against his side and told stories that had even Carver straining to hear the end; he helped Mother wind skeins of yarn and cheerfully shared the town’s gossip like the giant girl’s blouse he was.

He was terrible and obnoxious and Carver couldn’t stand him _one little bit_ , naturally, but he was Aidan, and he’d always been Aidan, and Carver would have happily murdered anyone who tried to hurt him.

So what was he supposed to do now that Aidan sat staring into the horizon for hours at a stretch, sad and broken as an ancient statue of Andraste? He’d long since recovered his strength from…whatever it was that had happened to him (Aidan refused to speak of it; for the first three weeks of recovery, Aidan had refused to speak at all)…but it was as if pieces of him had been fractured deep inside his skinny chest. There were still moments when Carver looked up and saw his brother there, but most days all he saw was a strange young man with thick scars fading a pale silvery-white and eyes that _hurt_ to meet. Worst of all, there was no one Carver could fight to make it all better. Leto was fuck-knew-where—apparently, he had disappeared from the Fade as if he had never existed—and there was no other easy target for his frustration. There was just Bethany and Aidan moving about the house day by day by day like ghosts, and the rest of them tiptoeing around them as if a single wrong step could set them to shatter.

It was impossible. It was intolerable. They couldn’t live like this.

And he had no idea how to _fix it_.

Carver scowled darkly and threw the remaining trade goods into his bag. He yanked its wide mouth shut and slung it over his shoulder. Bethany looked up as he stalked toward the door; the violet-pale shadows beneath her eyes made him so bloody _angry_. “I’m going to town,” he snapped at her curious look, and Carver hated the way she flinched back at his hard tone. That was new, too; that made everything in him tighten like a fist.

“Very well,” Bethany murmured, dropping her eyes back to the mending she was listlessly picking over. Aidan didn’t even turn his head when Carver went slamming out of the house.

He paused on the threshold to drag in a deep, ragged breath, then tipped his head back to let it out on a long sigh. The day was warm and beautiful. The sun was high and a crisp breeze was winding its way through the trees. The road to town stretched out before his feet, snaking across the green Ferelden countryside in lazy loops and swirls. If he turned his head, he could see where it curved around lookout hill, moving toward the dark, mysterious lowlands of the Korcari Wilds.

If only that road could carry him away from all this Maker-taken darkness.

He could follow it into the Wilds if he wanted; he could put one foot in front of the other and just…keep going, letting the Hawke cottage get smaller and smaller in the distance until he was free and it was nothing but a memory of constant fear and worry and frustrated protective instincts. He couldn’t keep his siblings safe—hadn’t that been proven already? So, really, what was the point in staying?

Carver sighed and rubbed at his face angrily. His shoulders—his entire body—was clenched painfully tight. It would be _so easy_. He could picture it: picture himself learning to live off the Wilds, practicing his swordplay day and night on the wolves that prowled the lowlands until he grew even stronger, even more battle-hardened. He would become a great warrior there. Then and only then would he leave the protection of the Wilds to seek out the king’s armies. They’d question him at first ( _here, boy, but you’re barely a man grown!_ ) but he’d simply offer to face any knight they sent against him. And then, with devastating cuts of his two-handed greatsword, he’d fell every hero that entered the ring, one after the other, until even the king grabbed for his sword, determined to test his might against the young warrior of the Wilds.

Carver wouldn’t cut down the king, of course. He’d simply keep him dancing, steel catching the light of the torches as the sun sank and the moon rose and the stars leaned close to watch their epic battle. He’d deflect the desperate cuts and hacks until, exhausted, the king finally yielded and said in a rich, booming voice: _Carver of the Wilds, thou art truly the most noble and terrible of warriors. Thy youth is belied by thy sure strength with a blade, and I wouldst have thee join mine honor guard as a most revered knight of—_

The front door opened suddenly, neatly clipping him in the ass. Carver jerked forward, yelping, and turned to glower at his brother. Aidan blinked slowly, grey eyes focusing on his face as if coming back from somewhere far away. The look quieted any angry protest Carver would have made, turning it to ice in his chest.

“What do you want?” he demanded instead, surly out of habit. He shifted the rucksack’s strap on his broad shoulder and tried not to look as guilty as he suddenly felt. What was he doing, even thinking about leaving his family? The Hawkes were utterly useless; they would be caught or killed within a season if Carver wasn’t there to keep them whole.

Not that they would likely agree with that, but Carver knew the truth of it.

Aidan lifted one arm in answer; folded over it was the long dark green hooded cloak Mother had sewn him so long ago in the hopes that he’d be willing to try to be amongst people again. Carver couldn’t see how the cloak was any less conspicuous than the strange Dalish scars his brother now bore, but Mother wasn’t in the habit of asking him about such things.

Even though she definitely _should_.

“That’s stupid,” Carver said. When Aidan didn’t have a snarky reply (and why, _why_ did he still wait a beat as if expecting Aidan to engage with him the way he always had? Things were _different now_ ), he reached out and plucked the cloak from Aidan’s hands, tossing it back into the cottage. “It’s the end of summer; no one is going to be wearing hoods or capes or any of that nonsense. If you want to come, _come_ ,” he added at Aidan’s faint frown, “but, just, you’ll be fine as you are. Your stupid face will be just fine.”

 _Please come_. The thought hit him suddenly, _hard_ , pain and hope twining in his chest like weeds set to choke his heart. Carver dropped his gaze and swallowed, hating the helpless surge of emotion. Aidan hadn’t left the house more than a half-dozen times since _That Night_. He’d never ventured past the sloping lawn since the night so long ago he was carried inside. This was the first time he’d shown any interest in the world outside at all, and something inside Carver was clawing with desperate hope that this might be what shook him out of his self-imposed bell jar for good.

He wet his lips and jerked his chin up, fighting to look annoyed. Carver crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Well?” he demanded. “Are you coming?”

“Where are we going?” Bethany’s low voice startled him into straightening, arms dropping to his sides again. She slipped past Aidan and squinted against the sunlight. In full daylight, she looked even frailer, more worn around the edges. Carver watched helplessly as the twin he’d tried to coax out into the world time after time slipped her hand so easily into Aidan’s, squeezing his fingers until he squeezed back.

“I thought you didn’t want to go into Lothering,” Carver accused. “I thought Lothering and all its people could go hang.”

Bethany’s lips quirked faintly. For a moment, she almost looked like the sister he remembered. “Yes, well, if Aidan wants to go check out the town, then I suppose they can go hang another day.”

_Of course._

Carver turned on his heel, bristling against the unfairness of it all. “Well, keep up,” he snarled, already starting down the path. “I don’t want to have to keep waiting on you two.” He set a hard, fast pace…for all of ten steps, before he reigned himself in with a sigh. A glance over his shoulder was enough to confirm that Aidan and Bethany were following, clasped hand-in-hand, neither talking. They looked like bloody invalids leaning together like that, and all at once, Carver felt a strange sense of empathy for the Chantry, the Templars.

Magic had done this to his family. Magic ruined _everything_. Maybe it would have been better if they’d been in the Circle where the Maker said they belonged. At least there they would have been safe.

He swallowed hard against that dark, traitorous thought, and refocused on the road ahead. Some of the shine had gone out of the day, and his hand actually trembled where he had a stranglehold on the bag’s straps. He wanted to dip his own brain in lye soap and had to fight back the instinct to start babbling apologies like some kind of lackwit. The impulse was getting harder and harder to deny as his volatile emotions became more and more difficult to control. Someday, he was afraid he really was going to snap.

But not today. Carver hurried his pace as he led the way into town.

Lothering was a tiny village made up of wide open fields and clusters of humble cottages. The Chantry was bigger than the whole surrounding countryside warranted, and likely far grander as well, looming over the village like a great, golden vulture. A stream wound its way through the town, bisecting it into east and west, with a bridge that had seen better days spanning the banks. There was a Chanter’s Board not far from the bridge; a merchant often set up his wares just across the way.

He was there today, Carver saw, wagon hitched against the stone wall. A crowd was gathered there, voices rising in excited shouts and calls and laughter. “What the void?” Carver muttered, pausing some distance back, instantly wary. Crowds had always made him nervous. People on their own were all well and good—some were decent folk, some were idiots, some were assholes; he could handle them if he had to. But once groups started to form, those people became an unquantifiable force. A mob was a mindless beast, and he’d rather face down an ogre than two dozen villagers with pitchforks and torches.

This gathering didn’t look hostile, but even so, he’d much rather make a strategic retreat and come back another day. “We should,” Carver began, turning to face his siblings—

—who moved right past him _toward the crowd_ like the pair of idiot children they were.

“Hey!” he protested, stumbling to catch up. He grabbed for Aidan’s sleeve, aware of eyes already turning to look at the three of them. One of the women gasped at the sight of Aidan. Another took a step back. A man frowned and stroked his beard, and a Templar ( _oh Maker_ ) went very still. All at once, Carver wished he hadn’t been so reckless. A hooded cloak would have looked strange at the tail of summer, but they could have told any number of lies to excuse it. Aidan was recovering from some great illness. Aidan grew cold easily. Aidan had the pox and was _horrifically ugly_ and was just trying to save the children of Lothering from a lifetime of nightmares.

You know. Just. Anything.

He looked around at the slowly quieting crowd (mob; any crowd was a mob waiting to happen) and desperately tried to work out an escape. He didn’t have his training sword with him, but he always carried a few knives, and he’d gotten burly enough to be able to throw a punch that would stun most ordinary men. He could probably hold a quarter or more of them off while Aidan and Bethany ran for Father, if that’s what it took.

“Aidan,” he murmured, tugging sharply at Aidan’s sleeve. “We should—”

“What’s wrong with your face?” a sudden voice demanded. It was a little girl, no more than six. She had carrot-colored braids and as many freckles as the night sky had stars. Mud streaked her tunic.

There was a beat of silence, and then—miraculously—Aidan laughed. Carver and Bethany both jerked to look at him; Carver actually lost his grip in his surprise, and Aidan moved toward the girl with steady steps. He dropped down into a crouch by her and hooked a finger into the neck of his own tunic, pulling it aside so she could see the scars winding their way down his neck and shoulder in delicate filigree swirls. “Don’t you like it?” he asked gravely. “My father once told me the story of those marked by Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf of the Dalish. Have you heard the tale?”

She slowly shook her head, eyes wide. Several other children began to creep near.

“Carver,” Bethany murmured, reaching blindly to grasp his arm, but what could he do but watch? He scanned the crowd warily; many of the townspeople were already going back to their business, though some still cast Aidan curious, questioning looks.

“Well, I’ll have to tell you the story someday, about how he sought to steal dreams and was chased across the darkness. But some of those touched by him tattooed themselves with these very markings to show that they had faced the Dread Wolf and survived intact. It was a way to celebrate survival in the face of certain destruction.”

A young boy, who’d been creeping closer all the while, spoke up. “Have you seen the Dread Wolf? What’s he like? Is he _scary_?”

“I bet he’s scary,” a third added. “I bet I’d be able to face him, though!”

The girl snorted. “Would not, Allen! You won’t even go near the pups!”

Aidan laughed again, straightening. A dimple was flashing at the corner of his mouth, and when his eyes cut back to Bethany and Carver, they were bright, teasing—almost his own again. “Well, no—the Dread Wolf is just a story I’ll be happy to share with you another time. But I have faced other sorts of fears, and it only seemed right that they should leave their mark. Think of these like the markings the Dalish wear. But that hardly seems important; what I want to know is what is this talk of _pups_?”

Carver watched as Aidan was grabbed by the hand and swept up into the crowd. He instinctively moved to follow, but Bethany’s hand on his kept him still. There were tears spilling down her cheeks. “Hey,” he said, startled enough to reach up and touch his twin’s face. She just laughed and caught his wrist lightly.

“I’m fine,” she promised, squeezing. Then, with another laugh, she tipped her head back. Unchecked tears streaked across her pale cheeks toward the dark mass of her hair. “It’s just. _Carver_. It’s been so long. I thought I’d broken him for good, but I _haven’t_ , and everything is going to be fine.”

“…what the void are you talking about?” he asked, hating the hint of desperation in his voice. He was used to the magic-users in his family not making any sense, but this was even more alarming than usual. “What could you possibly have—”

They were interrupted by Aidan’s cry. “Carver! Bethy!” The twins looked at each other, then nearly scrambled one over the other, pushing through the crowd to reach the wagon. Aidan was sitting on the ground by one of its great wheels, long legs folded under him. For a brief, horror-stricken flash, Carver thought he had somehow been hurt. _Why did you let him go off alone,_ the quiet whisper that never quite left him sang through his blood and bones, making the world spin. _You’re supposed to be watching out for them._

And then Aidan laughed brightly and turned his face and Carver saw the wriggling brown mass in his arms.

“A _dog_?” he demanded.

“A _puppy_!” Bethany cooed, dropping onto her knees next to Aidan. The tiny thing was no bigger than half-starved chicken, all scrambling feet and lolling tongue. It barked and snapped playfully when Bethany reached out to scratch behind its ears, paws scrabbling at Aidan’s tunic. It seemed determined to lick every inch of his brother’s exposed skin, pink tongue dribbling streams of saliva. Aidan just snorted laughter, turning his face this way and that, eyes scrunched up under the determined assault. “He _likes_ you, Aidan. Oh Maker, he’s _precious_.”

The merchant moved to stand by Carver’s side. “A mabari,” he said, watching the display with a faint smirk. “Last of his litter, and smallest of the pack, but no less cunning for all that. It seems he’s taken an interest in your…?”

“Brother,” Carver said, frowning. He hadn’t mentioned his siblings to anyone in town before; as far as any of them knew, he was the only Hawke son. It felt good to see Aidan and Bethany out in the world again, giggling stupidly together like children, but he also couldn’t help the sharp lance of regret, too. Everyone liked Aidan. Truthfully, everyone liked Aidan a good deal more than they liked _him_. For some time now, he had been _the Hawke boy_ ; pretty soon, he knew, he’d go back to just being Aidan’s little brother.

It was unfair, unjust, intolerable…but he supposed he was willing to put up with it if it meant Aidan and Bethany being their old, obnoxious selves again.

“How much are you asking for it?” Carver asked, crossing his arms. He scowled at the merchant. “And don’t try to quote me a price too high—I know as well as you that you aren’t licensed to sell mabari pups. I _ought_ to turn you in.”

“But good Master Hawke,” the man said, tilting his head toward Carver with an obsequious smile. “Once you hear the song I’m willing to _give_ this pup away for, you would not think of such a thing.”

There was another bright laugh. This time, Carver didn’t look over, though he couldn’t help but hear his siblings’ breathless exchange:

“Should we buy him? Could we buy him? What would you name him?”

“I’m thinking…Francine?”

“ _Aidan._ ”

“Bernard?”

“ _Aidan!_ ”

“How about…Trouble?”

“That isn’t even a name.”

“Sure it is, Bethy. Just think of it: we’re out in the fields with Father. The sun is high, the air is hot, the grass is trembling in the breeze…and there comes a mabari bounding across the land, tongue lolling. _Why_ , you call. _Here comes Trouble!_ It has a certain ring to it, does it not?”

“…you are _so_ ridiculous. Why am I related to you again?”

“Terrible judgment and worse luck,” Aidan said, and it was all Carver could do not to smile.


	12. Leandra

Laundry day was one of the few that Leandra was unequivocally glad of having mage children. Keeping a cottage as small as theirs comfortable required a constant succession of Maker-granted miracles. It seemed some days that all she did was clean and mend and cook. If she had to draw the endless tubs of water to scrub the never-ending supply of robes and dirt-caked tunics, she would have no peace.

As it was, on days like this, she bitterly regretted the absence of the servants she’d taken for granted all throughout her girlhood.

She sighed and stretched, flicking back a strand of mostly gray hair. Today, she felt old. It came and went like the tide, exhaustion creeping into her bones as she scrubbed pawprints off the hearth or smoked meat for the long Ferelden winters or… Or so much as _breathed_ sometimes, it seemed. It was hardest when Malcolm was away. When her Voice was near—a big, handsome, inescapable presence—it was easier to laugh and tease around the scarred kitchen table. The wild land that had never quite felt like home seemed less inhospitable then, and the quiet fears she could never dispel seemed less threatening. When Malcolm was home, the cottage _felt_ like home. And when he was gone…

Everything was just a little bit darker.

She closed her eyes and stretched out with her mind, reaching for her Voice. He was still some distance away, in the wilds to the south, but she could feel the hum of their connection threading through her skin and bones. He was as tired as she. He missed his family. He felt frustrated by yet another long, fruitless search. The Witch of the Wilds was a story the people of Lothering whispered to scare their children, but Malcolm insisted there was some truth to the tales. 

_There is magic in those lowlands, my love,_ he said every time she questioned the wisdom of him leaving their small farm to venture into the untamed wilderness. _There is some truth to that old yarn, somewhere. It could be a coven of apostates. A family like ours. Generations of them, even. The legend has been passed down so long—maybe they know things we don’t. Maybe they can help us._

It was a fool’s errand, she was sure of it. There was nothing in those wilds but wolves and savage men and swamplands. But Malcolm was intent on hunting down any lead that may help Aidan better shield himself now that his Voice was… _gone_ …and he had always been a stubborn man.

A stubborn, ridiculous, aggravating, wonderful man.

Leandra swiped back her hair again and pulled the shift from the sudsy water. She frowned against the worry twisting through her thoughts—she’d never escape it if she let herself think of Aidan and Leto—and focused on wringing out the nearly threadbare cloth. Outside, Trouble was bounding around Bethany as she churned the earth for the next planting; Leandra could just make out the huge warhound and the slight feminine form through the gently waving grass. Carver and Aidan were working in town. It was a day like any other—

_Malcolm sighing in annoyance as he carefully bypassed a cascade of leg-traps, end of his staff digging into the loamy earth_

—the backbreaking work barely enough to soothe her thoughts. She rinsed soap from the shift and wrung it again, hanging it to dry before the fire, then turned back to the overflowing basket of laundry still waiting to be washed. 

“Oh, Carver,” Leandra sighed, plucking one of his tunics from the pile. Its sleeves were little more than rags _again_. He’d taken to practicing swordplay day and night with a few of the local boys, but he’d yet to learn to use a shield…or when to parry rather than mindlessly charge. She slid her fingers along one of the jagged slices in the oft-mended fabric and shook her head.

“It’s a wonder he still has arms.”

Leandra startled at the low, bemused drawl and turned, heart leaping—but no, of course, it was just Aidan. “You frightened me,” Leandra said, a little harsher than she intended. She was wound up tight as a spring. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Aidan hung his satchel on a hook by the door and bent to tug off his boots. When he straightened, he seemed to take up the entire doorway—shoulders broad and strong, height unprecedented in both Hawke and Amell bloodlines. His hair had grown shaggy over the winter and there was the dark growth of a beard coming in. Standing there, tall and big and handsome in faded robes and a warm, wry grin, he looked like a man grown. He looked, Leandra thought with a soft pang, so very much like his father.

“We were let go for the day. There was a fire in serrah Logram’s barn. Nothing major,” he added at her low noise. “Just a hayloft. Men were already getting it well under control by the time news reached town, but enough people headed out to gape that serrah Dale told us we might as well head home for the day. Carver’s off tearing up another of his tunics while he pretends to be a soldier.”

He rolled up his long sleeves as he crossed to where she’d set the tin basins. “Here, let me get this,” Aidan said, tugging Carver’s tattered shirt from her hands. “You can take a rest.”

“There’s no time for rest,” Leandra protested. “There’s too much to do. Besides, I’m not sure I remember how.”

Her oldest son flashed a grin. “Then you clearly need the practice. You can sit and pretend to supervise, if you’d like. Preferably with a nice cup of tea instead of a whip.”

That earned a laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Is that why you don’t encourage me?” he shot back, chin lifted in a teasing smirk. With the beard, she couldn’t see the scars tracing his chin, but firelight caught the pale flourishes winding their way down his neck, making them gleam like silver.

Leandra quickly looked away and pulled out her mending as she sat in her rocking chair to work on _another_ of Carver’s ruined shirts. “I don’t encourage you because the last thing this house needs is another Malcolm Hawke.”

Aidan hummed in response, already dragging the tunic along the metal washboard. His surprisingly muscular forearms tightened with his work, ornate scars gleaming.

She watched him work for a long minute. Her baby was so unaccountably…grown. She didn’t think she’d ever get over the surprise of it. She kept expecting to look up to see Aidan chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed, singing learning songs to Bethany while Carver tried to hit them both with a wooden spoon. That little boy was in every line of this big, strapping man, and yet, some days, she had to search to see her first-born child behind the careful walls he kept surrounding his daily heartbreak.

 _Oh my darling,_ Leandra thought wistfully. _How the world has failed you._

She couldn’t say that out loud, of course. She couldn’t disrespect how _hard_ he worked to keep it all bottled up inside. So instead she silently rocked, and began to sew, and let the weariness sink from her bones.

There was no need for the long thoughts anyway, she told herself. The day was like any other: a fire crackled in the hearth. A wind blew, fluttering the curtains. Aidan hummed beneath his breath. Outside, Trouble barked and Bethany laughed. Her daughter called to him, words indistinct but tone bright. Happy. It could be, Leandra decided, a _happy_ day if she just let it. She resolved to give it her best.

Which only made the sudden stab of terror all the more alarming.

Leandra jerked to her feet with a cry; she dropped the mending, stumbling over the basket as she spun around, searching for— For— Oh Maker, what, _what was it?_

“Mother?” Aidan’s voice was filled with worry, but she could barely hear him. Pain raked through her, tearing and terrible. Blood was rushing in her ears and she was gasping in unsteady breaths, and she couldn’t, she was, she, ah, ah _Maker_ she was going to _die_. She was going to die and she was going to leave her children without a father, she was going to leave them unprotected with so much still to learn, and Leandra, his _Leandra_ —

“Malcolm!” she keened, crumbling to her knees. The shock of pain was lancing through the sick fear, the _regret_ , painting it in waves of screaming red. She could feel Aidan’s hands on her, could hear his worried shout, but she was lost inside her own body—she was leagues away, coughing blood in a wet field.

Dying. Her Voice was _dying_.

“Malcolm, no, _no_ ,” she begged, but no amount of pleading could stop this. The pain guttered like a candle reaching the end of its wick. Fear faded into a cold, muddled confusion. Into quiet. Into a queerly light, floating regret.

Into darkness…

…and then nothing at all.

Somewhere far to the south where the lowlands swept into a wild filled with wolves and savage men and the whisper of a legend, Malcolm Hawke stared sightless up into a sky as blue as his eyes once had been. Hovering over its kill, the first Hurlock—a harbinger of the Blight to come—sank its teeth into his flank and _ripped_.

And miles away, huddled on a dirt-packed floor, Leandra Hawke sank into a shocked silence within the circle of her son’s arms, just as unseeing. Just as unknowing. Tears tracked unchecked down the worn lines of her once-beautiful face. She’d lost her Voice. She’d lost the other half of herself. She was broken and bleeding out into the Fade.

And she would never be the same again.


	13. Aidan

Aidan stood on the hill, silently watching the creature wearing Leto’s face.

It was dark out. Of course, the Fade always seemed dark now. The rocky Tevinter shore with its olive trees and stark towers was a black gash across the landscape of his dreams. The sky was leaden, clouds roiling queasily overhead. They churned with the threat of a rain that never came; a sharp wind howled through the shivering trees and buffeted his long robes about his legs.

It was wild; _he_ felt wild.

Far below him, on the black rock beach, Leto crouched and tried to build a fire. He was shivering in the cold, arms bare, shoulders hunched. Even at this distance, Aidan could practically see the gooseflesh rising along his perfect, smooth olive-colored skin. The muscles beneath the unblemished (so unlike his own, strangely scarred, forever marred) flesh rippled as he moved. The threadbare tunic clung provocatively to the surprising breadth of his shoulders.

A flare of sudden light hit his face as the spark caught, and the man he loved more than reason was bathed in gold. He was so beautiful he made Aidan’s breath catch. His fingers twitched, and he found himself swaying forward before he could lock his knees against the impulse.

Maker, but the demons were good at their work.

“No,” Aidan said beneath his breath. It was a temptation he’d faced over and over again through the years. From the moment his Voice had been ripped away from him in a flurry of blood and pain and terror, he’d been endlessly searching his dreams for Leto. Every night he went into the Fade, and every night the demons swarmed to meet him. They could sense him in a way they never could before and could _taste_ his desperation.

It didn’t take long before they puzzled out the best way to hurt him; it didn’t take long before they were wearing Leto’s skin.

The first night it had happened… Well, that first night, he thought for sure he’d go mad. He’d been sick and ragged from his own ordeal, skin a tender map of healing cuts. It hurt so badly, back then, all the time.

He’d been in the orange grove, reeling against the black bark of the trees. The Fade swam around him in shimmering shades of sleet and steel, and he thought for sure he was going to shake apart where he stood. Usually, when he entered the Fade, he could sense the distant presence of his Voice calling to him. He could smell the sharp tang of citrus and hear the crash of the waves and feel the heat of the sun on his shoulders. There was none of that now. Aidan’s mental landscape had been stripped bare until it echoed around him, the ache of loneliness and loss tolling like a bell in the heaving night sky.

 _He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone_ , like a dirge.

He’d fallen, that first night. Crumpled weakly under the weight of it. Black clouds billowed and boiled and he’d choked in unsteady breaths as he fought to come to terms with how _alone_ he felt inside his own skin. For the first time since he was eight years old, there had been no Leto hovering just on the edge of his awareness. There’d been no song twisting its way through the hills and valleys of the Fade.

There was nothing. He was nothing. He would always be nothing.

A hand touched his arm.

Aidan was so caught in the memory of that first return to the Fade that for a moment, he was lost between the past and present. He looked up— _the memory of him looked up, like an echo_ —and met green eyes the color of the forest floor, where light rarely touched. Black hair fell in sharp, jagged cuts, the long ends just brushing a delicate collarbone. Full lips parted.

“Aidan,” the demon wearing Leto’s face said, and Maker help him, Aidan actually leaned into the caress when Leto cupped his face between cold, otherworldly hands. The voice was a low, gravel-rough growl; it rocked through him. It _hurt_. “You do not have to fight this.”

Aidan squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden burn of tears and knocked aside the demon’s hands. He pulled away and walked a few steps, clenching his fists against the surge of fury licking like wildfire through his veins. Emotion was dangerous here; the demon could feel it, could feed on it. The demon could use it to find a toehold and work him over like a clockwork toy, exposing all the hidden springs and cogs that made up his soul.

 _It isn’t Leto. It cannot bring Leto back to you. It lies._ And,

_You promised them. No blood magic._

“ _Aidan._ ” Those hands were on him again, sliding up his shoulders and into his hair. “It hurts to see you like this. Please let me help you.”

He swallowed. “No,” he said, pulling away again. Aidan turned and made himself face the clever imitation of his Voice. Maker, the detail was so uncanny; the demon had replicated Leto down to the annoyed furrow between his brows. The small divot above his upper lip. The way he cocked his head, chin lifting in carefully controlled defiance. Even the dark sweep of his lashes was right, and he could feel himself beginning to quake inside even as he added, “I’m not interested in whatever you seek to offer, demon.”

“Oh _Aidan_ ,” the desire demon murmured, watching him with Leto’s eyes. “How you _lie_.”

Leto stepped closer—closer—reaching out as if to touch Aidan. His hands stilled a breath away, palms hovering over his chest. His heart. Leto bit his bottom lip, coquettish in a way that was so unlike him. “So much pain,” he whispered, eyes flashing black when he looked up again. “So much forbearance. One word, one promise, and I can make all that go away. I can bring him back to you; just think of that, Aidan. Think of being with your Leto again. All it would take is permission to let me see the world through your eyes.”

Leto wet his lips, the flash of fangs bright against the pink tip of his tongue. It was like watching a snake scent the air.

“That isn’t so high a price, is it?” Leto purred. “To experience the touch of your lover once more,” his hands dropped to Aidan’s chest, cold through layers of fabric, “in exchange for my silent passage into your world. I would be but a whisper. I would be such a _help_ to you. It is so unfair, is it not? You, barely a man grown, fighting so hard to keep your family from crumbling. You try so desperately to be the man your father would have wanted you to be. Why, Aidan.” He reached up to cup Aidan’s bearded cheeks, black-on-black eyes eerily bright. “I could give you _so much_.”

“No,” Aidan said, hating the way his voice caught on the desire to say _yes_.

The demon pressed in; his hips slotted against Aidan’s suggestively. “We both know you are eventually going to say yes.”

“May the void take us both on that day,” Aidan rasped, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was laying in his cot beneath the familiar thatched roof of the Lothering farmhouse. The demon, the Fade, the creeping horror of it all was lost against the mundane shape of the white-washed beams overhead and the sound of Carver’s steady snores.

He’d made it another night without giving in.

Aidan drew his hands over his face, meat of his palms digging against his eyes as he tried to force his tight muscles to uncoil. At the foot of his bed, Trouble lifted his head and whined low in his throat. “Hush,” Aidan murmured. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling at messy black curls. His eyes burned with unshed tears. If he was a few years younger, if he was _certain_ no one would overhear, he’d give in to the impulse to curl up on his side and sob into his pillow, like his mother still did every night. As it was, he stared up at the thatch and tried counting backwards from twenty until the ache subsided.

The weight of his mattress shifted, dipping as Trouble stood and made his way to the headboard. He leaned his tawny head into Aidan’s line of sight, tongue lolling out, hyper-intelligent eyes bright with something like empathy. He whined in the back of his throat and lightly pawed at his shoulder.

“Don’t you start,” Aidan warned. “This is working just fine for me.”

If a dog could roll his eyes…well, no, sometimes he swore Trouble really _could_ roll his eyes, and it was just his luck to be saddled with a hyper-intelligent, hyper- _sarcastic_ warhound. Aidan reached up to rub the scruff of his dog’s neck, and bit back a laughing yelp when Trouble caught him full in the face with an exuberant swipe of his tongue.

“Oh, gross!” he whisper-laughed, tipping his face up as he tried to squirm away. Trouble yipped and bounded to press his massive paws against Aidan’s chest, pinning him to the mattress. His eyes were dancing in amusement. “You’ve made your point, you foul hell-beast! Now get off!”

Trouble licked a wide swath up Aidan’s bearded cheek and into his hair—across his ear, _ugh!_ —before letting himself be shoved off. His tongue lolled and he panted happily while Aidan struggled to his feet.

“You really are aptly named,” Aidan muttered; he scrubbed at the side of his face with his long sleeve, making a face. Several feet away, Carver rolled over in his cot and snorted in a breath, then let it out on a long, uneven wheeze. “Come on, Trouble; let’s start breakfast.”

He grabbed trousers on the way out the door, hopping from foot to foot to tug them on as he crossed the main room. The curtains had been drawn last night, but he could just see the fitful light of dawn pushing through the coarsely-spun fabric. Fresh logs had been set in the fireplace the night before; Aidan gestured vaguely toward them as he grabbed the bucket from where it hung by the door. He didn’t even have to look to set the spark. Flames were already beginning to pop and crack as he unbarred and opened the door to face the dawn.

A cool wind blew. Trouble squirmed past, nearly knocking him against the doorframe, and went bounding across the rolling hill sloping down from the Hawke farm. He could just make out Lothering’s huge windmill and the peaks of the Chantry roof. The sky above it was a deep violet, layered in subtle lavenders and pinks as it edged toward the horizon. Stars winked and faded as if bowing out across the night sky. The sun hadn’t quite crested, but it would any moment; Aidan found himself frozen at the threshold, watching the sky with a breathless sort of wonder. How beautiful the world could be, if he just took the moment to notice. He wondered if he could make his Fade dreams ever look like this again, or whether something was broken inside him, damaged beyond all repair.

There was a soft footfall and an arm slipped around his waist.

“Woolgathering, big brother?” Bethany murmured.

Aidan turned just enough to tug his sister close and kiss the crest of her head. Her dark hair tumbled in messy waves about her remarkably pretty face. “Just admiring the sky, little pain in my arse,” he said. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

She tipped her face up to look at him, brows arched in playful surprise. “Oh, and you know this, do you?” she teased. Another light wind blew; on it, he could smell the fresh, _green_ scent of winter losing its grasp on the world. “Do your great and terrible powers involve augury now?”

“They involve boundless, foolish faith,” Aidan said, more earnestly than he intended. Then, because there was no serious moment he couldn’t ruin with a dash of bad humor, he added, “ _Annnnnnnd a little bit of zee communing with zee elements_.”

Bethany rolled her eyes at his ridiculous Orlesian accent. “ _Oh, is zat right?_ ” She leaned around him to tug the bucket from his hand. “Come on, idiot mine, let’s go commune with _zee well_ so we can get breakfast started.” She headed out the door and down the path, nightrobe buffeting around her legs like a sail.

“‘We?’” Aidan said thoughtfully, watching her. “What is this ‘we’?” But he laughed at her rude gesture and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. The air was crisp and chilly and smelled like spring. The packed earth path was cold against his bare feet, and he was grateful for the trousers he’d pulled on under his own nightrobe, but each blustery wind brought a smile to his face as he trotted to catch up with his little sister. Trouble barked and rolled extravagantly in the grass and a sliver of the sun began to push slowly into view.

Aidan slowed when he reached Bethany and lightly bumped their shoulders together. Off in the distance, Lothering was slowly beginning to wake. “So, tell me about your Anders spotting.”

She looked up, startled, and Aidan laughed.

“What— I didn’t— I wasn’t— _How_ —?” Bethany sputtered. Color crept across her full cheeks, and she ducked and scowled when he mock-cooed at her. “Oh, you arse; how did you know?”

“You are maybe a quarter as smooth as you think you are. You smile in your sleep,” Aidan added at her scowl. “I’m glad. It makes me glad to see.”

She looked down at the path in front of them. “It shouldn’t,” Bethany said; her voice had dropped low and serious. “You should hate me for it.”

At that, he had to catch her arm, tugging her to a stop. Aidan frowned down at his sister, but she wasn’t looking at him; her eyes were dropped to the ground between them. “Hey,” he said, reaching up to tuck back a tangled curl. “Bethy, _no_. No, never. I like seeing you happy. Maker, all I _want_ is to see you happy.”

“It seems so wrong,” she admitted. She still wouldn’t lift her eyes to meet his. “After everything that’s happened…to you, to Mother. It seems _wrong_ to be happy. But I can’t help it.” Bethany ticked her gaze up; there were tears on her lashes, and her warm brown eyes were achingly earnest. “I do try, but then I go to sleep and he’s there and I _can’t help it._ ”

“ _Good_ ,” Aidan countered. “I don’t want you to be able to help it.”

She let out a breath and dashed at her eyes with her sleeve. “But you—”

“Are happy _for_ you.”

Bethany frowned. “And Mother—”

He reached out to clasp her shoulders, head ducking so he could meet her eyes. “You let me worry about Mother.”

Bethany’s brows were knit together; she looked torn. “But what about the demons?” she murmured. “I keep trying to do what Father wanted—I keep trying to stay away—because I don’t want to attract any demons. But it’s just… Hard. It’s so hard not going to him when he calls.”

“I know, Bethy,” Aidan murmured. He tipped his head forward to rest their foreheads together. The wind dragged her dark curls around their faces like drawing a veil against the slowly waking world; there was no Lothering, there were no Wilds—there was nothing but the two of them, trading strength and love between them in an unbreakable bond. “And it’s okay. We’re both stronger than any demons, right?” She sighed, breath going serrated, and he gave her shoulders a light shake. “ _We are zee Hawkes, are we not? Together, we are zee greatest_ — Hey!” he added with a laugh when Bethany stomped lightly on his foot. “ _Zat is unkind!_ ”

She pushed at his chest, shoving the bucket into his arms with a fake glower. Trouble, bounding into the fray with a glad bark, nearly bowled them both over. “You are _literally_ impossible to talk to sometimes, Aidan Hawke,” Bethany fumed. She pushed at his chest again, laughing when he tried to trip her with one long leg, and they went staggering toward the communal well, sniping playfully at each other as Trouble tagged their heels with bright, happy barks.

The sun had broken over the edge of the world and coils of smoke were beginning to rise from farmhouses dotted across the wide green lands. A pretty girl a few years older than the twins was already at the well, one hand gripping the rough leading rope. She looked up with a hopeful smile as they drew near. Her long red plait fell across her shoulder, and there were dimples at the corners of her rosebud mouth. “Good morning, Aidan Hawke,” she murmured, watching him from beneath her lashes.

“And _Bethany Hawke_ ,” Bethany added, snagging the bucket back from him. He tried to hold on—it was a good idea to have a shield when dealing with some of the more…earnestly forward young women and men of Lothering—but Bethany just smirked and stomped hard on his foot. He let go in surprise and she turned away, leaving him completely defenseless. The harpy.

The redheaded girl looked at him expectantly, still smiling. Aidan flushed and cleared his throat and reached over to help unhook her full bucket. Her arm brushed along his as she drew close. Her fingers skimmed his own. Drops of water sloshed over the rim as Aidan fought the instinct to jerk back, spattering the dusty ground between them. “Ah, good morning, Peaches!” he said. His usually low voice came out embarrassingly high. “How’s your brother doing?”

She flushed as he carefully set the bucket by her feet. Delicate fingers twisted in the long end of her braid. “Oh, he’s doing well; he recovered nicely from the whooping sickness thanks to that elfroot you lent us. That was _very_ kind.”

Bethany snorted.

“Well, that’s what neighbors do,” Aidan said, casting his sister a quick, desperate glance.

“And you’ve always been so…neighborly,” Peaches added earnestly. “I can’t tell you just how much I appreciate how neighborly you can be. In fact, I was hoping that you would be willing to—”

Bethany hit Aidan’s hip as she swung the bucket up to hook it onto the winch. He immediately turned to help, facing away from Peaches. The look his sister shot him was full of malicious glee. “Sorry,” she said with a bright, flashing smile. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes, well, that’s me: neighborly to a fault. Do let me know if your roof needs re-thatching. Again.” Bethany barely stifled a giggle, and he gave pushing her into the well a moment of serious thought. “ _Carver_ ’ll be pleased to know your brother is feeling better,” he added to Peaches. “He’s been missing someone to go on and on about joining up with the King’s army with. Maybe he should come by later today? I’m sure he’d be glad to see you too.”

“Hm? Oh. Oh, yes, of course. If he’d like.” The redheaded girl frowned, then sighed in (if history repeated itself again, temporary) defeat. “Well. I suppose I should go.”

He glanced over. “Good day,” he said with a strained smile, before turning his full attention back to the winch. He slowly began to lower the bucket. Peaches sighed again and headed away. Trouble’s bark sounded almost like a laugh.

Bethany waited a few minutes, watching the other girl go, then shook her head. “Poor Carver,” she tsked, helping Aidan drag the full bucket back up. “What’s a younger brother to do when the whole town is in love with one Aidan Hawke?”

“Don’t you start,” Aidan warned. He unhooked the bucket and lifted it free. They fell in step together, each holding one of the bucket’s rope handles. Water sloshed against the rim as they made their way back up the winding slope to the Hawke homestead.

Bethany laughed. Her long nightrobe snapped and furled about her legs as they walked, and her hair lifted into dark streamers. She was, Aidan thought with a wistful sigh, hardly his _little_ sister anymore. “Oh, you know how charming you can be when you feel like it. As I said, _poor Carver_. He really will have to sign up with the Army and march far, far away if he ever wants a chance to charm the pants off of anyone.”

“Maybe we can ship half of Lothering off with him.”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy the fact that half the town wants to make out with your stupid face.”

He scowled. “Stop trying to be funny; you’re not the sarcastic Hawke.”

“Oh but Aiiiidan,” Bethany cooed, fluttering her lashes at him. “Don’t you want to take Peaches into your warm, manly embrace? You are so virile and _neighborly_. With your big, soulful eyes and your big, macho muscles and your big, pouty mouth. You can’t blame her for feeling palpitations when you— _HEY!_ ”

 _Ha_. All it took was a thread of Force magic, subtly wielded, to send the bucket of cold well water dangling between them tipping wildly to the side…and all over his sputtering, thoroughly _soaked_ sister.

“ _Aidan_ ,” she growled.

“Oh dear,” Aidan said, one hand lifted delicately to his mouth, eyes wide and mockingly innocent. “My virile, neighborly muscles must not know their own strength.”

Bethany spat a curse and lunged for him, but he just spun away with a laugh, keeping the bucket firmly between them—a shield as noble as any of Carver’s—as Trouble yipped and bounded around them in excitement.

The sun was up. The air was clear. It really was going to be a _beautiful_ day.


	14. Bethany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a look at the story tags, then decide whether you want to read this chapter.
> 
> Some dialog lifted from the game.

“So tell me this,” Bethany teased, leaning against the solid wall of Anders’ chest. “Who is going to soothe your lonely soul when I decide you’re just too old and feeble for me?”

They were sprawled beneath her apple tree, his strong arms around her, his fingers tangled with hers. The skirt of her richly-colored dress (because here in the Fade, she didn’t have to be a poor country mouse if she didn’t want to) spread over their legs until, if she squinted, they almost looked like one person.

 _Fitting enough_ , Bethany thought, and snuggled closer.

“That’s a very good question. What could possibly replace Bethany Hawke in my affections?” Anders teased back, nosing dark curls along the nape of her neck. “Hmm… Perhaps a cat?”

She twisted around to look at him. “A _cat_?”

“A cat. An orange tabby, to be precise.”

Bethany wrinkled her nose. “I am going to run away to become some grand princess of, oh, Starkhaven or somesuch, and you plan to fill the gaping hole I leave behind with a _cat_?”

“Not just any cat: an orange tabby, remember.”

She sighed. “It seems old age has begun to rot your brain. I suppose it was only a matter of ti— Hey!” Bethany protested with a laugh, pretending to struggle when Anders pulled her bodily against him. He rolled them over, catching her wrists and tugging them up over her head to pin them to the earth. The soft, springy grass brushed her cheek and his warm brown eyes were dancing with merriment so very close to her own. Bethany bit back a grin, fluttering her lashes playfully as his weight settled over hers.

Well. _This_ was promising.

“ _Oh no_ ,” she murmured; her voice dropped to a low, throaty purr. She twisted her wrists against his grip, pretending to struggle; the way his expression went from bemused to heated made answering fire coil low in her belly. “It looks like I’m at your mercy, serrah.”

Anders cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he said.

Bethany subtly arched, letting her thighs spread wide to make room for his narrow hips. Anders’ eyes flared, then narrowed as she grinned saucily up at him.

“Minx,” he said.

“Better a minx than a cat, don’t you think?” When Anders pretended to pause to consider, she arched again, deliberately dragging her hips against his.

He sputtered and loosened his grip, a dark flush spreading over his cheeks. Even though she was days away from eighteen, Anders still insisted on waiting for, Maker, _anything_. He wouldn’t even kiss her properly. “Bethany,” he said, voice strangled.

“Minx or a cat,” she said in a sing-song, rolling her hips again, feeling… Feeling him against her, getting hard. “ _Oh_.”

Anders dropped his head forward, cheeks red. He gave a breathless laugh. “Yes, fine, all right,” he said. There was so much fondness in his voice, so much _love_ , that she could feel her heart swell. “I suppose when you inevitably leave me to run away with some Starkhaven prince or another, I won’t be able to replace you—not even with a cat.”

“That’s all I ask,” Bethany murmured, reaching up to slide her fingers into his hair. She tipped her face for a soft kiss, loving the way he shivered against her as he clawed for his own self-control; she was doing this to him. _She_ was making him want this. “Anders…”

His hands gripped her hips, keeping her still. “Don’t leave me,” he murmured against her mouth, voice suddenly serious. His fingers dug into her skin, and all at once she was reminded of the long months he spent in solitary each time he tried to run away from the Circle and was dragged back by the Templars—over and over and over again, swathed in bitter loneliness, trying to reach her.

She thread her fingers tighter and kissed the corners of his mouth; the arch of his nose; the line between his brows. She kissed the corner of his eyes and his temples and his chin, spilling herself into him through the bond Fate and the Chantry had not yet allowed them to seal. “I won’t leave you,” Bethany promised, loving him with everything she had. “I promise, Anders; _I promise_. I won’t ever.”

They were running, but they weren’t going to make it.

She could hear screams in the distance as Lothering burned. The Blight had come like water breaking over a dam. One minute Bethany had been sitting in a field with the sun strong on her shoulders and a book spread open on her lap, and the next Carver— _Carver_ , still dressed in the armor the king’s army had given him, spattered with dark blood—was tearing past as if the darkspawn horde was at his heels.

“Carver!” she’d cried, rising to her knees, but he stumbled past, bursting into the house and yelling,

“ _Aidan_ , get Mother; we have to _go_.”

Mother of course protested, insisting they pause to gather belongings, mementos. There was no telling whether they would have made a clean getaway if they’d just left the past to burn and ran for safety the moment Carver sounded the alarm, but…

But now, there was very little hope for them.

“Keep up!” Carver yelled. He was taking the lead, huge sword strapped to his back. Aidan was just a few steps behind, staff in hand. He glanced over his shoulder every few minutes to make sure they followed, and Bethany nodded to him each time, trying to telegraph a certainty she didn’t feel. 

Several paces behind her and falling farther and farther behind the longer they ran, Mother gasped and panted and fought to keep up.

 _Maker, give us strength_ , Bethany thought, gripping the warm wood of her own staff. It was strange being outside with it in the full light of day, and if the sound of crackling flames and snarling darkspawn weren’t nipping at their heels, she may have actually enjoyed the unexpected breath of freedom. She couldn’t remember a time when her magic was the least of the worries weighing her down. She almost felt like a child again. She almost felt…good. Was this how she’d feel every day if Anders had his way and the power of the Chantry was overturned?

 _Focus, Bethany_ , she chided herself, picking up speed. _Survive today and worry about an improbable future tomorrow._

“Mother!” Aidan suddenly cried, interrupting her thoughts.

Bethany turned her head, heart rising to her throat at the sight of her mother tumbling to her hands and knees. And just beyond her— Oh _Maker_ , just beyond her, visible now, were the nightmare faces of the darkspawn come to kill them all. There was blood and stringy flesh hanging down the chin of the first monster; that was all Bethany had time to notice before she flung out her staff and threw up a wall of flame. It burst into life, licking the barren rocks and curling toward the sky, charring corrupted skin. The darkspawn staggered, snarling in pain before stumbling in for the attack, but the delay was enough for Carver to double back and go charging in, blade swinging. He halved a hurlock with a low grunt; black blood showered rock and the flames licked higher. Beside her, Aidan swung his staff, and Bethany could feel the air displacing as the force bolt rocketed out, slamming a second hurlock to the ground. His skull exploded like overripe fruit.

Mother staggered to her feet, and Bethany caught her elbow, pulling her away from the fight as Carver and Aidan cut through the remaining stragglers caught midway through her wall of flames. The rest of the horde growled and hissed on the other side, momentarily stalled.

“Bethany,” Mother gasped, sagging against her. “Oh _Bethany._ ”

“Shh,” she murmured, brushing back mostly-white hair. The lies came so easily. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

Bethany held her trembling mother against her, fighting not to telegraph her own stark terror as the last of the darkspawn tumbled to the ground, spilling blood in an oilslick. She watched as Aidan wiped his brow and nodded to Carver; Carver nodded back sharply. “I think that’s all of them,” he said, shifting his grip on the greatsword. Blood dripped from its end.

“For the moment,” she felt compelled to add.

Mother shuddered within the circle of her arms. “Maker save us. We’ve lost it all. Everything your father and I built.” There was so much despair in her voice that Bethany had to squeeze her eyes shut against the sudden surge of loss. _Father_. Maker, she wished her father were here. He would know what to do; he always knew what to do.

She wished _Anders_ were here, if for no other reason than his presence would give her strength.

Aidan moved close, as if sensing her thoughts. “At least we’re alive,” he said in a gentle voice. “That’s no small feat.”

“Yes, of course,” Mother murmured. She passed her hands over her face, digging the meat of her palms against her eyes. She looked so frail, Bethany thought with a worried pang. Mother hadn’t been the same since Father had died, but within the last few years, she’d begun to rally again. It hurt to see her brought low. _Lothering was the last place she saw Father alive_ , Bethany reminded herself, sharing a painted look with Aidan. _Losing it is like losing a piece of her soul_.

Several steps away, outside their little circle, Carver shifted uncomfortably; he had never been very good with displays of naked emotion. “That fire trick isn’t going to hold them back forever. We need to keep running.”

“Carver’s right,” Aidan said; one big hand settled on his mother’s back, stroking a soothing circle between sharp shoulderblades. “We have to go.” 

Mother drew in a shaky breath and pulled back with nod, and as much as Bethany agreed…there were still too many questions left unanswered.

“Wait,” Bethany said, catching Aidan’s sleeve before he could turn away. “Where are we going?”

Carver snorted, rounding on her with a pompous smirk. “Away from the darkspawn; where else?”

“And then where?” she demanded, refusing to step down. “We can’t just wander, aimlessly.”

Aidan stepped between them as if the three of them were children again, snipping and snapping like mabari pups. “Peace,” he said. “Does it matter, Bethy? So long as we wander aimlessly away from the hoard, I’m happy.”

“We can go to Kirkwall,” Mother interrupted.

Bethany and Aidan exchanged a look. “Well, that wouldn’t be my first choice,” Aidan said slowly.

“There’s a _lot_ of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother,” Bethany added.

Mother just lifted her chin. She looked stronger than she had just a moment before, as if even the thought of Kirkwall had given her a second wind—a purpose. “I know that,” she said, “but we still have family there. And an estate. We’ll be safe.” The three children shared a dubious glance. “There’s nothing else _left_!”

No, Bethany mused. There really wasn’t, was there? They’d moved across the belly of Fereldan all her life, fleeing from one small town to another. Lothering had been the only place they’d dared to settle and put down roots. Lothering had been the only town to whole-heartedly embrace them. There was nowhere else they could go.

She sighed. “Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship.”

Carver scowled. “If we survive that long,” he muttered. “I’ll just be happy to get out of here.”

“Which we’re doing now,” Aidan added, glancing back toward the wall of flame. “We need to _go_ or none of this will matter.”

“Lead on, brother,” Bethany said. She slipped one arm around Mother’s waist and kept it there as they hurried deeper into the foothills. The winding path through the rocky cliffs was treacherous to the unwary, rocks slipping beneath their feet and skittering over the steep edge. Smoke billowed in the distance—not just behind them, at the by-now hollowed-out shell of Lothering, but everywhere she looked. The darkspawn horde was all around.

 _Anders_ , Bethany thought, heart beating a rapid staccato in her chest as the fear pressed in on her. It seemed grossly unfair that she’d lived her life knowing exactly where to find her Voice…and yet had never been truly by his side. _Anders, I promise I will try._

Time seemed to stretch, hollow and echoing as they fled. Maker knew how long it was before Aidan paused, raising a hand in warning. They stilled, and Bethany strained to listen. From behind came the creeping, skin-crawling certainty of darkspawn nipping at their heels. And ahead…

Battle? Another refugee, perhaps?

“Careful!” Carver hissed. Just ahead came the growl of a hurlock, followed by the clang of steel and a harsh grunt. Mother gripped her shoulder, and Bethany hung back with her as her brothers charged forward, Trouble at their heels. The two women slowly inched forward. Bethany slipped around the bend in the path just in time to see a man in blood-spattered armor fall back. He turned, metal screaming, and skittered across the rocky path away from the two hulking darkspawn lunging for him. Aidan and Carver were still too far away to help. His companion was dealing was a darkspawn of her own.

“Oh, Maker save us,” Mother gasped.

Bethany lifted her staff. “Void take the Maker,” she said. She felt the storm at her fingertips, felt the power lancing through her. Lightning struck one of the advancing hurlocks, sending it lurching back from the fallen man.

The other hissed and swiped at his unprotected face.

And then, with a roar, the second refugee barreled forward, knocking the darkspawn to the ground. Steel flashed and blood spattered as she slashed, snarling, face a grim mask. “You will not have him!” she snapped, bashing the Hurlock’s skull into the rock with the brutally hard weight of her fists. She reached for the creature’s dropped sword and drove it into its exposed neck, hardly flinching at the spray of blood. Just a few paces away, Carver was cleaving the second, lightning-charred hurlock in two.

Bethany squeezed her mother about the waist and led the way forward, just as the woman—red hair tied back in a loose queue, muscular arms bare—bodily lifted the heavily armored man, letting him rest against her as she held aloft her weapon. “They will not have you. Not while I breathe.”

Aidan’s fire licked across the ground, consuming the last of the darkspawn. They hissed and clawed at their burning faces, staggering toward the strange couple, but a blast of ice caught them before they could take more than a bare handful of steps. They froze in place as the spell took them, blades lifted; even the flames were frozen into beautiful, glistening peaks.

Carver grunted and slammed the hilt of his greatsword against the base of their skulls, one after the other. They shattered like shards of a mirror.

The battle was finished.

All at once, the man collapsed, gripping at the woman’s shoulders as he fought to keep his feet. She turned, dropping her weapon to catch him. “Stop squirming, Wesley,” she murmured in a low, steady alto. “You’ll make it worse.”

Bethany moved forward, carefully picking her way through the bodies. Carver crouched to check grimy pockets and pouches for spare coin. Aidan just gave her a lopsided smile.

“Nice work, little sister,” he said.

“And you as well, brother—so very macho.” He laughed and she grinned back, grateful for the release of tension, no matter how brief. She was still smiling when she moved to assist the clearly wounded man. “Here, let me help you,” Bethany said.

His face was pale and flecked with blood, and he was glaring up at Bethany as if she were no better than the darkspawn. “Apostate, keep your distance,” he said.

She froze. No, of course, even covered in gore, she recognized that armor. Andraste save them, a bloody _Templar._ His eyes were fixed on her, moving between her face and the staff she gripped in suddenly trembling fingers. Aidan cursed. “Well the Maker has a sense of humor,” Bethany said bitterly. Her family moved to flank her; she could sense Carver shifting automatically into an attack stance, gore-streaked sword raised. “Darkspawn and then a Templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering.”

“It does seem rather unlucky,” Aidan agreed, sarcasm laced with grim worry.

They were faced off against the unlikely couple—the Templar and the warrior. He was weak, sweat and blood streaking his brow. “The spawn are clear in their intent, but the mage is always unknown. The Order dictates—” The Templar’s voice broke.

“Wesley,” the redheaded woman chided gently.

“That woman is an apostate,” he snapped, eyes locked on Bethany’s. He moved forward, armor clanking, and Maker it was like something out of a nightmare. She felt her blood running hot and cold. After all this, was she to be taken to the Circle? “The _Order dictates_ —”

Aidan pushed between them, bristling. He moved into the Templar’s space, nearly chest to chest, _looming_ over him. His own staff came down onto the ground between them with a hard _crack_ , and Bethany could feel the threat of ice on the air. “What exactly does the Order dictate, _Templar_?” he murmured in a low voice that sent shivers up Bethany’s spine.

The woman hastily stepped forward and placed a hand on the man’s arm. “Dear, they saved us,” she said. “The Maker understands.” 

The Templar stood where he was, eyes locked with Aidan’s. There was an age of give and take between them, silent threats made and recognized. And then, unbelievably, _inconceivably_ , the Templar stepped back. “Of course,” he said, drawing a shaking hand across his brow. “Now is not the time.”

“I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we’re safe from the horde. Until then, we may as well have each other’s’ backs. You will find me no stranger to the sword. And Wesley—” Wesley was too weak to be more than a hindrance, and Aveline seemed too honest to try to pretend otherwise. “Wesley will be able to keep up.”

Aidan’s eyes never left the Templar, but he slowly nodded. Of course he did—to do otherwise would be to leave them to their deaths. He could never do such a thing; Aidan forever believed that no one was beyond saving. And yet even he was willing to throw his weight around a little. “So long as you know I stand with Bethany, _Templar_.”

“Understood.”

Aveline shook her head. “For now, we move with you. North is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde.”

Carver cursed, looking between the four of them with a sour expression; he hated being kept from major decisions. “Then we’re trapped!” he snarled. “The Wilds are to the south; that’s no way out.”

Aidan glanced over to meet Bethany’s eyes. She wet her lips and nodded faintly, understanding the question there. _Are we okay throwing in with a Templar_? Anders would have railed against such an idea. He hated the Templars almost as much as she feared them. But Anders was a very, very long ways away, and the more swords they had at their backs, the better—even if one of those swords could turn around and bury itself in her or her brother at any moment.

Aidan nodded back. “If the options are south or die,” he said, pushing past the Templar. “I’ll take my chances with south. Fall in.”

“You take point,” Aveline agreed, falling back. “I’ll be rear guard.”

“I suppose that leaves me,” Carver muttered, but no one paid him any mind.

They fell into formation and pressed on, an uneasy alliance. Bethany kept close to her mother’s side, aware of the Templar—Wesley—just to her right. Aidan was some distance ahead and Aveline some distance behind; Carver swung between the two warily, sword out, gaze sweeping the ruined countryside.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Bethany murmured from time to time, trying to smile. “We’re going to make it; you’ll see.”

“Yes,” Mother agreed, voice wavering. “Yes, my darling, of course. Of course.”

Neither of them believed a word of it, but that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered, Bethany decided, was that they clung to hope for as long as they had left. She refused to look at the Templar. _Oh Anders, you are not going to believe the story I have for you tonight_ , she thought. Though maybe…maybe she could convince this Templar to help her _free_ Anders in return for their help. He was clearly gravely injured, breathing labored and skin slowly going a mottled gray the farther they walked. Without the Hawkes, he and his wife were surely doomed. Maybe they could use that.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, trying to see past the boogeyman of her childhood to the man inside the armor. Would he agree to such a thing? She’d have to think on it. It was worth trying, anyway, for Anders’ sake.

 _Later_ , Bethany told herself, refocusing on the rocky path. _Survive today first._

They met little more resistance on their way through the foothills. Sometime later, the ragged band of them staggered up an incline toward a small plateau, moving far slower than they ought with the injured Wesley. Aidan cast a quick glance over his shoulder as he reached the top, scanning the horizon. He met Bethany’s eyes and his lips twisted into a faint smile.

She smiled back.

And then the earth began to shake.

“What is it?” Aveline said, stumbling to catch her footing. They moved together in a tight cluster at the crest of the plateau. Rocks fell from the high crag overhead, scattering around them like rain. “An earthquake?”

“ _Apostate_ ,” Wesley added with a frown, turning on her, “what is this madness?”

“It isn’t _me_ ,” Bethany protested. “It’s—”

There was a loud _crack_ , like the spine of the earth itself had been broken—and then suddenly, a great form crested the far hill, skin mottled with blood, eyes maddened, fangs bared. Its great horns rose high in the air, as tall as any man, and the world shook with its bellow.

“Oh _Maker_!” Carver cursed as the ogre snarled and crouched to charge.

“Mother, Bethany, Wesley—get _back_!”

Bethany shoved her mother back, stumbling desperately as the creature barreled past. Wesley went tumbling weakly and Carver whirled, blade slashing. Fire crackled at its feet, but it barely seemed to notice Aidan’s spell, snorting a breath and resting its weight on one massive, pitted knuckle as it skidded to a stop. Blood dripped from its maw. Its shoulders were as wide as Aidan was tall, and the world moved like a ship on the sea when it slammed down its other fist.

“Oh, _Malcolm_ , save us,” Mother breathed.

The ogre turned as if responding to her voice, slow and brutal and terrible. It was close enough that Bethany could smell the death on him; she could feel the heat cast from its body. Mother made a torn noise, and Bethany knew—she _knew_ —she ought to be afraid.

They were staring death right in the face, and yet…

And yet suddenly, all she could feel was fury.

“Bethany!” Aidan cried in warning, but she barely heard him. The blood was ringing in her ears and her heart was pounding and she was filled—all at once she was filled with _power_ , with _rage_. She had spent her entire life on the run, fearing the gifts she had been given, fearing the Templars, fearing the hatred of the god who had made her. The man she loved was locked in a prison and she was kept from his side, and all of it, everything, was because of _fear._

No more.

“Maker give me strength,” Bethany said, just as the ogre began its second charge. She swung her staff with a cry, a fireball exploding at the creature’s feet. The cold breeze of Aidan’s ice spell whipped her hair back at the same moment, but the ogre only roared and reached forward with a huge fist—

“No!” Aidan screamed.

—grabbing her around the middle and lifting her impossibly high.

She tried to twist free, but it had her (Maker, it _had her_ ) fingers squeezing tight about her middle as she struggled to raise her staff again. The righteous fury was bleeding away in a blur of color as she was swung—dizzying, blinding, oh Andraste—and

_Crack._

Again. Then _again_.

There was pain. Cold. Wet. Breath rasping across snapped serrated ribs. She was tumbling across the ground as the ogre flung her shattered body aside, and the world was shaking, _she_ was shaking, but it was all so _cold._

“Bethany!” she heard, from a long way’s away. Her mother’s voice, she thought. On its heels, reverberating through her mind like an echo: _Bethany!_

Anders. Of course, in the end, it would always be Anders. She was _glad_ to hear him one last time.

 _I’m sorry_ , she thought, almost dreamily. _I did try._

And then Bethany Hawke closed her eyes—and with her last breath, gave herself to her Anders and the waiting darkness.


	15. Aveline

If there was a more miserable ship of fools crossing the Waking Sea, Aveline would be hard-pressed to name it.

It was late; she could just make out the waning gibbous through the deck’s metal grate, bobbing with each swell of the ocean. The stars were out in full force, strangely oriented as they left the familiar anchor of Ferelden and fled toward the Free Marches. Even so, she could point to each constellation by turn if she wanted and give them name: the Lady, dancing across the heavens, the Knight-Commander giving hopeless chase. Andraste’s Flaming Sword. The Chalice. 

The Dragon.

Aveline leaned back against the rough-hewn post and closed her eyes, Wesley’s Templar shield cold and unrelenting beneath her fingertips. The _Dragon_. Now that was something she had never expected. Their escape from Ferelden was almost like a fever dream: it came to her in fits and bursts whenever the quiet stretched too long, making her chest grow tight with a pain she hadn’t yet given herself time or permission to feel. It all seemed so _unreal._

_Bethany in the grip of the ogre, smashed against pitted rock. Aidan’s broken cry, and the sudden firestorm that swept the ogre up into a howling inferno. The bone-jarring crash of it falling to the earth. The snarl of a hundred darkspawn, drawn by the monster’s dying bleats. The Dragon, chasing them off before transmutating into the Witch of the Wilds. The devil’s bargain struck with a grieving family._

_Wesley’s death._

She squeezed her eyes tight, fighting against the burn of tears. _Oh no you don’t_ , Aveline told herself. She bore down on the grief, shoving it away. Later, when they reached Kirkwall and her world stopped tipping madly this way and that, she would find a quiet corner and let the loss wash through her like a cleansing rain. Later, she would strip down her armor and ache for the husband who had been taken from her.

 _Later_. When she wasn’t surrounded by a cargo hold full of sleeping refugees. When she wasn’t walking on a knife’s edge.

Aveline drew in a steadying breath and opened her eyes again. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to meet an empathetic grey-blue gaze across the unsteady darkness. Aidan tipped his head, rising up onto an elbow. His mother was curled less than a foot away, Carver on her other side, like a shield. The staff that had brought down so much destruction lay at his feet, and Aveline refused to let her eyes tick toward it, unwilling to give offense.

If she believed in the Maker the way Wesley had, maybe she would find it in her to condemn the apostate mage. As it was, when she met Aidan’s eyes, all she saw was a young man making very difficult decisions. And, perhaps…perhaps she saw a bit of a kindred spirit as well.

He tipped his head, jerking his chin toward the grate; Aveline nodded and rose. She straightened her tunic, willing herself not to glance at Wesley’s shield as she wove through the sleeping refugees toward the hold’s shallow steps. Aidan moved silently behind her, bare feet whispering across the wooden planks. Abovedeck, the third watch moved about their business; the sails were full and ghostly in the setting moonlight, snapping as they filled with wind. White-capped waves broke across the prow, and the officer of the watch called occasional orders in the accents of the Free Marches.

Aveline had never been on a boat; if she had her way, she’d never be on one again. Even with her legs braced wide, muscles clenching tight, the world pitched and rolled in an uncomfortable dance. She couldn’t seem to catch the rhythm of it the way the sailors did. Aidan, blasted showoff that he was, moved easily across the deck toward the prow, scampering lightly over the rail as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Aveline followed, bootheels drumming the floorboard, but she kept wisely on the proper side of the steady beam.

“If you fall in, I can’t promise I’ll dive after you,” she said, folding her arms and leaning against the rail. “I’ll let the merfolk have you.”

Aidan shot her a wry look. “If I fall in, I’ll deserve that.” He hopped up onto the railing so he was sitting next to her shoulder, a study in opposites—dark and fair, graceful and sturdy, mage and warrior. They were almost of a height, standing, and they shared a similar breadth of shoulder. They also, Aveline mused with a wry smirk, both stunk to high heaven.

No one had been given much of a chance to bathe since the dragon-slash-witch had deposited them in Gwaren, though they’d each done what they could. Aidan and Carver had shorn their thick black hair during the first week at sea. The severe cut emphasized the similarities and differences in their appearance, from Aidan’s strange tattoo to Carver’s sharper features. There was no mistaking that they were brothers now, though Aidan was clearly the more attractive of the two—and Carver was clearly very aware of that fact, if his scowls were anything to go by.

Bethany clearly favored Aidan in appearance, and Aveline wondered whether she had been more like Aidan or Carver in temperament; she wondered what this journey would have been like if all of them had survived.

She dropped her gaze, heart too full…and let herself relax when Aidan’s shoulder brushed hers in silent solidarity.

“We’ll be reaching Kirkwall soon,” Aidan said after a long, companionable silence. “Do you know what you’ll do when we reach the city?”

Aveline glanced at him, a strand of carrot red hair slipped free of her usual severe queue. “I imagine I’ll see about finding work in the guard,” she said. “If they’ll have a Ferelden. Of course, I should go back to the army.” The thought of _that_ left a sour taste on her tongue. The army had been crushed at Ostagar; the king she’d sworn herself to was dead.

“Carver’s said the same thing,” Aidan admitted. “I hope you don’t. It’s your path to choose, but I hope you decide to stay in Kirkwall. There won’t be many people from home there,” he added at her low noise. “It’ll be nice to have a bit of Ferelden about.”

She curled her fingers tight around the railing. “You have your family.”

“So do you,” he said. Aidan gave her the courtesy of looking away, grey eyes casting out across the white-tipped sea. “If you want us.”

 _Family_. Wesley had been her family—he’d been enough for her to forsake her sworn duty and flee the broken army with him. But Wesley was gone, and she was crossing over into a land that was strange to her; she was a long way from home.

His shoulder bumped hers again, very lightly. Aveline tipped her chin up to study his profile, her lips twisting into a wry sort of smile. Aidan Hawke was offering to let her throw her lot in with a family of apostate mages in a city known for its hatred of magic. It would be rank foolishness to agree. Wesley would have protested the very idea.

Then again, Aveline Vallen had never been afraid to carve out her own path.

“We’ve made it this far together,” she said, just as the lookout called, “Land ho!”

“Look!” Aidan said, pointing. The low-hanging moon cast silvery light down on the high cliffs. Even at this distance, Aveline could make out the carved shapes of massive stone figures lining the belly of the City of Chains. The sight of those figures—the likenesses of the slaves that used to be sold from these ports—made the breath catch in her throat. The Gallows shone bone-white in the failing moonlight.

Kirkwall rose out of the darkness of the Waking Sea; only the void knew what Fate would bring to them there.

  


**END PART ONE**


	16. Varric

  


_“Thus began the Champion’s first year in Kirkwall. Word arrived from across the sea that the Hero of Fereldan had defeated the Blight. But Lothering was destroyed; Kirkwall was the Champion’s home now. So he remained, paying off his debts. Made a name for himself in the underworld. It was a busy year in the city. That’s when the Qunari landed. A great storm caught their ship and left hundreds of warriors stranded in the city, waiting to return home. That’s also when the trouble began with the mages. The Templars had become very powerful under Knight-Commander Meredith. But most importantly, that’s when I first met the Champion.”_  
— **Varric Tethras** , from Act I of the Champion of Kirkwall

  


  


Varric Tethras had seen a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this? This was bound to take the cake.

“On your left, brother!” the younger of the two called, slashing past the elder so close the man’s robes ruffled in the breeze. He barely seemed to notice, however, spinning his staff with such economy of motion that Varric could barely follow as its rough end slammed into a Coterie head, then rebounded to smash into another’s face. He continued the motion effortlessly, spinning to catch a third across the jaw with a sharp _crack_!

“He fights with staff and knives and a few smoke grenades, he does,” Ulrich said, crossing his arms over his spindly chest. “Sometimes all three at once. I ain’t never seen a man more able to take down a crowded room with just a stick. But he does it every time.”

 _Just a stick_. Varric snorted, squinting his eyes as he carefully tried to follow the choreography of the older brother’s dance. It was so bloody _fast_ that he supposed he could see how Athenril had managed to disguise the true nature of her man’s abilities—if he hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have seen the shimmer of ice as the staff connected, the flicker of flames in each “grenade” blast.

A mage, but not from the Circle. That much was clear.

“Tell me their story,” Varric said. They had a decent vantage point on a promenade overlooking the filthy Darktown runoff, far enough away that he didn’t have to worry about pulling Bianca out of her holster, but he kept his voice down regardless. No need to attract unnecessary attention. “These are the Hawke boys, I take it?”

Ulrich straightened. “Athenril will have my hide if I start spreading tales about her boys,” he protested. “I’m already taking a risk bringing you here to see them at work. If I—”

Varric reached into his pocket, never taking his eyes off the spectacle, and tossed the man a coin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a grubby hand dart out to snag the copper and slip it away into an inner pocket. “If you?” Varric prompted.

“Arright, so, here’s the story far as I know it. The two of ‘em are Fereldan. Came to Kirkwall on a refugee boat not long after they closed up the city tighter’n a Chantry Sister’s treasure box, if you follow.”

“It was a difficult analogy, but I managed,” Varric said dryly. Down below, the younger brother called out a warning and swung his giant, clearly-compensating-for- _something_ blade with an impressive amount of strength. The Coterie assassin sidestepped before it could make impact. _You’re telegraphing everything, kid_ , Varric thought even as the older brother snapped, “Carver, less theatrics, more results!” and hit the assassin with a blow that had him jolting in place as if caught in a thunderstorm.

Lightning spells, masterfully disguised. Oh, this was brilliant.

Ulrich was still talking. “…with some redheaded terror who joined the guard. They weren’t gonna get in—no one was getting in—but turns out them Hawkes are actually part of the old _Amell_ clan on their mother’s side. Their estate and all the money’s gone now, but they still had that weasley Gamlen Amell around and he worked out a deal with Athenril: the boys’d work for her, doing her dirty business for a year,” he gestured down below them, “and she’d get them into the city. They agreed, and they’ve been working out their time since.”

“Athenril has a good eye for talent.”

“Sure as shit she does. And the Hawkes have been a wonder. Profits’re up tenfold, and gangs are thinking twice about making trouble. Athenril’s been trying to sweet-talk them into staying on, but the older one ain’t having it. He’s the real talent,” Ulrich added, as if Varric couldn’t see that for himself. “When anyone in Kirkwall says the name _Hawke_ , they mean him.”

Varric murmured vague assent, tapping his thumbnail against his belt buckle. He and his own brother had been planning their Deep Roads expedition for weeks already—Maker’s furry nutsack, was it months by now?—and though the details were coming together nicely, they still weren’t any closer to all the riches of the forgotten thaigs. Now that the Blight was well and truly over thanks to Solona Amell, the Grey Warden Hero of Fereldan and her ragtag crew, their window of opportunity was closing. It wouldn’t be long before all the armies of man managed to drive the darkspawn back underground, and then it’d be too dangerous to go on their little treasure hunt. It was already deadly enough.

Varric liked his head right where it was. And from what he could see, there was no one better than Hawke to make sure it stayed there.

“What’re you planning?” Ulrich asked when Varric turned away. The Hawkes were sopping up the last of the Coterie as if the gang of skilled assassins and thieves were nothing more than alley cutpurses. “S’got to be something big if you’re looking to hire on the Hawkes.”

“Big enough,” he said, tossing the man another coin. “You let me know when their contract with Athenril has wound down. I’ve taken rooms in the Hanged Man. There’s a silver in it for you if you get word back to me the _day_ they’re cut loose, and keep your gob shut in the meantime.”

Ulrich deftly slipped the coin away, all smiles. His mouthful of rotting teeth looked like a row of ancient gravestones. “Oh, aye, I’ll come running, Serah Tethras, have no fear.”

Varric nodded and headed toward the steps that would lead him out of the stinking pit of Darktown and up into the slightly less stinking pit that was Lowtown. There was a great deal that needed doing before they were ready to hit the Deep Roads: maps to finagle, Bartrand to talk around, and more tangled detailwork than he could shake a nug at. He’d keep a series of hired eyes on the Fereldans, and when the time was right, he’d convince Bartrand that taking Hawke on as nothing short of full partner was the best idea he’d never had.

He had it all planned out.

But not even a master storyteller like Varric could have guessed that Aidan Hawke would be one step ahead of him…and his blasted brother Bartrand Tethras one giant step behind.

Ulrich was as good as his word—unfortunately for all of them, Varric tracked Aidan Hawke down too late to stop him from approaching Bartrand on his own…and getting summarily turned away.

“Maker’s beard,” he sighed, watching as his older brother blew off Hawke’s offer to sign on to the Deep Roads expedition. Trust Bartrand not to be able to recognize a golden opportunity when it was staring him in the face. Varric adjusted Bianca and began to move closer as Bartrand stormed off in a cloud of self-importance and the brothers fell back with a murmured conversation.

Hawke wasn’t wearing robes today—smart lad—leather armor light enough for any footpad and mended over and over, yet clearly sturdy. With his short black hair and neat beard, he could have been any number of mercs loitering about the chute between the dwarven guild and the Blooming Rose. Even his staff couldn’t have looked less like a mage’s stave, nicked and beaten and lacking the fancy ornamentation supposedly intended to focus spellcraft. The only thing that stood out about him was the long sleeves and gloves, and the fact that his underarmor was fastened all the way up to his chin. He always dressed like that. Most mercs went about flashing their muscles, like Little Hawke, especially in this heat. Seeing Hawke as pulled together as a Hightown miss was…curious.

Questions. Every time Varric saw Hawke, he was filled with more questions. The idea of unraveling those answers was its own sort of thrill.

He followed the brothers out of the merchant’s guild, keeping a decent distance between them. Thanks to Bartrand’s little screw-up, Varric would have to time his introduction well. He tended to prefer grand entrances anyway, but now one was absolutely called for if he wanted to make a favorable impression. As always, his mind began to spin out likely scenarios as if he were penning one of his stories, eyes scanning the familiar streets as he searched for an opening.

When the young thief he’d already marked some time back rose to his feet and bumped into Hawke, Varric began to grin. Oh, this was almost too easy.

“Hey!” Hawke called, turning, just as the boy began to run.

Varric smoothly unstrapped Bianca and let her familiar weight rest in the cradle of his arms. An arrow was already fitted—all he had to do was pull back on the crossbow’s mechanism and

_Twang!_

voila, the thief was pinned fast against stone, bolt snagged in the bunched fabric of his shirt. A perfect shot, if Varric did say so himself. He slid his lady shut and hoisted her back into her strap as he strolled toward the wriggling boy, taking his time. He could feel Hawke’s eyes on him, so he made it a show. “I knew a guy once who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you. But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchant’s Guild,” he said, tugging the bolt free and snagging the purse. “Might want to find yourself a new line of work.” Then, for good measure, he clocked the kid across the jaw and turned to face the Hawkes.

Annnnnd _scene_. Beautifully done.

The younger Hawke—Carver—looked somewhere between annoyed and incredulous (though tipping rapidly toward annoyed). The elder just looked like he was biting back a laugh. _Oh, a sense of humor,_ Varric thought. _That’s promising_. “I believe this is yours,” he said, tossing the coin purse; Hawke snatched it out of the air without a glance. No one could argue with his reflexes, that was for sure. “I’m Varric Tethras; I believe you’ve already met my brother, Bartrand.”

“The charming dwarf with his nose stuck up his arse? It was certainly a pleasure.”

Varric laughed. “A pleasure I’ve been forced to tolerate for more years than I’m going to admit. I could bend your ear with all the tales, but Junior over there is going to hurt himself glowering like that,” Carver’s frown deepened, “so I’ll get to the point. Even though it’s completely within my bountiful good nature to step in and save likely young humans from being fleeced by shoddy thievery, I do have an ulterior motive at play. You see, my brother may be in charge of our little expedition, but I’m looking to sign on someone of your particular talents.”

Hawke’s black brows rose. “I’m listening,” he said.

“I thought you might. But the thing is, we’ve got our share of hirelings. I’m more interested in someone who’s got a little more than a single cut riding on the outcome. I’m looking for a _partner._ If you bring in fifty gold and Warden maps of the Dark Roads, Bartrand won’t be able to say no.”

Carver cursed under his breath and turned away, end of his huge sword clanking against his calves. He reminded Varric of an angry cat, spitting and hissing. Hawke’s response was much more controlled. “I’m afraid you have bad information—we barely have two coppers to rub together, much less fifty gold. Not to mention I wouldn’t even know where to get my hands on a Warden map.”

Varric hooked his thumbs into his belt, grinning. “That’s where I step in. I’m invested in getting you this partnership, Hawke—I’m more than happy to follow you around Kirkwall and help out with any odd jobs for coin. A group with our combined talents and my connections’ll be sure to find paying work. We’ll have the coin in no time.”

“And the maps?”

“I have some promising leads.”

Carver snorted.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with my brother. You know nothing about us,” Hawke said, studying Varric’s face intently. “Why would you want us as partners?”

“Oh, on the contrary. You’ve made quite a name for yourself over the year. The Coterie has been squeezing people out left and right over the last year, and only Athenril has managed to keep in the game. The name Hawke is on many lips these days. Not bad for a Fereldan fresh off the boat.”

“Is it?” Hawke murmured. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to hear that. “You must have heard of my brother too, then.”

“A little, yes, but it is you they speak most of, Serah.”

“That figures,” Carver muttered, sotto.

Hawke quirked his brows and Varric had to grin. He understood the eternal angst of the younger brother better than most. “Your brother is welcome too,” he added; he could afford to be magnanimous. “The more the merrier.”

“Oh, if we do this, I’m going,” Carver said. “Without this expedition, we won’t last out the year.”

Hawke was still studying Varric’s face intently, as if trying to divine the truth from him. Varric tilted his head, letting Hawke stare him down. For once, he had nothing to hide. “Why would you stick your neck out for a complete stranger?” he finally asked.

And now, Varric figured, it was time for some raw honesty. “I’ve heard that if you want something done in Kirkwall, you go to Hawke,“ he said. “I’d rather go into the Deep Roads with someone with your reputation than go in completely unprepared. Besides, we’d be your partners. I’m willing to give a little trust if you are.”

Hawke hesitated, then glanced toward his brother. Carver shrugged helplessly. “Look,” he said, “you started this—and it’s a good idea. Certainly better than ending up in the Gallows. If he’s serious, we can’t afford to say no.”

Varric knew when to push for the final deal. “We work together, you and I, and before you know it, you’ll have all the capital you need.” Hawke was still hesitating—no doubt wondering whether this was an elaborate trap to hand him over to the Templars—but there was nothing but time and, perhaps, friendship that could put to rest those fears. So Varric just offered a wry, quirking grin and offered his hand. “What do you say?”

There was a long pause…and then slowly, Hawke begin to grin back. “Well. It’s not like I had anything better planned.” He reached to grip Varric’s hand, shake firm; those strange black gloves were cool against his skin. 

_There’s a story there_ , Varric thought, but he kept his mouth shut, He’d go fishing for that later. “Perfect. Kirkwall’s crawling with work. You set aside a little money you make on each job and we’ll get there in no time. We can start now, if you want. I have rooms at the Hanged Man, and we can ask around there or start beating the bushes around Lowtown.”

“Our friend Aveline’s in the city guard,” Hawke said, jerking his head toward the alley that fed into the main streets, which wound their way up to the Viscount’s palace, where the guard was housed. “I bet she’ll have some work for us.” They fell into step together. “Oh, and how do you feel about mountains?”

Carver snorted.

“I made a dragon a promise,” Hawke explained at Varric’s arched brows.

That very nearly made him stumble. “You made a— You know what, Hawke? You’re just a wealth of stories, I can tell. Lucky you, I’m a born listener. Now,” he added, grinning wide. Hawke returned his grin easily, naturally taking point as if he’d been born to be a leader. Varric was beginning to wonder if perhaps that wasn’t true. “Let’s go see what trouble we can stir up.”


	17. Aidan

“To your left!” Carver called, very nearly taking Aveline’s head off with a single swing of his giant sword. She grunted in annoyance, pivoting right and bashing a highwayman in the face with her fallen husband’s shield.

 _Crack!_ Blood spurted in a high geyser and Varric (who, Aidan was coming to realize, was just as mad as the rest of them) shouted, “That was beautiful!” as he let another bolt fly. The moon-bright streets had gone from abandoned to seething within moments. They’d barely had time to get their bearings before wave after wave of highwaymen had come leaping down from the flat Lowtown roofs, swords drawn and teeth bared. Maker, was there no end to them?

Aidan expertly spun his staff as he shot a discreet lance of ice toward an unlucky trio, freezing them mid-attack. Aveline swung her sword in practiced counterpoint and took off their heads in a graceful arc; they scattered and rolled like dice, painting the stones a garish red. The streets of Lowtown weren’t particularly safe at the best of times—tromping through the twisting warrens well past midnight was pure insanity.

But a job was a job, and Aidan needed all the help he could get if he wanted to collect fifty gold in time to partner with the Tethras expedition. _Even_ if that meant wading through bodies to get to his contact. He swung his staff again, neatly clipping a straggling highwayman upside the head; Aidan sent a flare of fire through the worn wood for added measure, giving a pleased grunt when the thief toppled bonelessly to the street. It said something about him—or at least about how the last few years had shaped him—that he no longer winced inside at the sound of skulls cracking and flesh sizzling. Long ago, in a world that seemed almost pastoral in remembrance, he’d thought that life was sacred and every man deserved a second chance.

Now?

Well.

Cutthroats and slavers and bloody mercenaries rarely haunted his conscience anymore. Kirkwall was a hard city, and he’d had to toughen up to match it. There was no use mourning the gentler man he _could_ have been. There was no use wondering what Father or Bethany would make of him now.

“We’re running late; wrap this up!” Aidan called. The _twang_ of a bolt leaving Bianca was his only answer, but Aveline and Carver picked up the pace obligingly. It was strange the way his friends followed his orders as if he had any right to be giving them. That, too, had stopped bothering him some time back, but it still caught him by surprise sometimes.

They made quick work of the remaining cutthroats, Aidan shouting occasional orders and Varric calling out his body count. When the last staggered to the ground with a liquid gurgle, a bolt embedded in his throat, the dwarf turned a wry smirk on him. His hair had come partially loosened from his queue and there were streaks of gore across his broad face. He spun a finely fletched bolt between agile fingers. “Six for me,” Varric said. “How many did you get, Hawke?”

“A bloody lot less than he’ll take credit for, no doubt,” Carver muttered sourly as he wiped his blade clean. “Who the void were these men, anyway? Coterie? Carta?”

“Sharp’s highwaymen,” Aidan said, rubbing at his brow. There was blood on his sleeves; of _course_ there was blood on his sleeves, and now all over his face, Maker take him. He sighed.

“How are you so sure about that?”

He focused on calling up ice—just enough to creep over his skin in a glistening frost, freezing the blood where it had spattered across his face, his neck. He concentrated, drawing it out of the dark cloth bit by bit, and when he brushed a hand down his front, frozen red droplets fell about him, shattering against the stone.

“They are marked,” Aveline said, crouching next to one of the corpses. She nudged his sleeve up to show the faint tattoo, just visible in the queasy moonlight. “This is the second band we’ve seen; the guard should look into this.”

“Where are they ma— Oh.” Carver’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Well, they _could_ have been Coterie.”

Aidan dragged his fingers through his hair, making a face as a fresh rain of frozen blood fell around him. Maker, that was disgusting. “They could have been a band of nug-humpers, but they weren’t. Aveline, did you want to call this in or are you with us? I don’t know how much longer this Anso will be waiting.”

She straightened immediately, strapping her sword and shield back into place with an enviable economy of motion. “I’m with you, Hawke,” Aveline said simply, falling into step beside him, as she always did. Aidan tipped his head toward her with a faint smile, leading the way through the crooked alleyway and toward the Lowtown bazaar. Varric moved to take his left, and Carver trailed behind them, still muttering.

There were a small handful of men loitering in the shadows of the bazaar, but they were smart enough to keep to themselves, voices pitched low and eyes deliberately canted away. These were men too savvy to try to prey on a group so clearly well-armed as theirs. By contrast, Anso the dwarf was ridiculously out of place, muttering nervously to himself as he paced between two stalls; his black beard bristled about thick features as if he’d been hit by one of Malcolm Hawke’s electricity spells, and he looked almost ready to come leaping out of his own skin.

Aidan glanced at Varric. Varric shrugged and spread his hands. They came to a stop just behind the anxiously pacing dwarf. “Are you Anso?” he asked in a pleasant enough tone.

The dwarf gave a startled shout and swung around, both hands lifting in a warding gesture. He had bright blue eyes and bushy brows; his clothes, from what Aidan could tell, were finely made. “Sweet mother of partha!” Anso swore. He placed a broad hand over his chest. “You can’t just run up on someone like that! Are you…” he swallowed “…the one that smuggler told me about? The one looking for work?”

Aidan fought to keep his expression grave, though he could practically feel the waves of amusement radiating from his own dwarven companion. “Did you think I was going to attack you?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Or, I hope not anyhow. My apologies, human. I haven’t been on the surface very long. I keep thinking I’ll fall up into that sky any minute!”

Varric laughed. “Bartrand used to be like that,” he said. “Got jumpy every time he stepped outside.”

“That must be uncomfortable for you,” Aveline murmured, her low comment nearly overpowered by Carver’s annoyed, “Can we get on with this already?”

Aidan cocked his head at the dwarf, brows lifting faintly.

Anso flushed. “Ah, well, yes. But I digress. I need some help. Rather badly, in fact. Some product of mine has been…misplaced. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to.” He gestured weakly. This, Aidan thought, was not some seasoned criminal they were dealing with. “If you retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?”

“Just what did these men steal?”

“Did I say steal? I don’t know if I would go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They smiled and everything!” 

Varric covered a snort with a delicate cough.

“The goods are valuable, however,” Anso continued. “And illegal. And my client wants them very, very badly. You know how those Templars can be.”

 _That_ had his attention. “You’re smuggling lyrium to the Templars?” Aidan demanded, torn between shock and reluctant admiration. Lyrium was strictly controlled by the Chantry…which of course made it an ideal market for the Carta and Coterie to corner. He’d never met anyone crazy enough to try to muscle in on that territory.

Varric whistled. “Maker’s breath! Between the Chantry, the Carta and the Coterie…”

“Shh!” Anso hissed, blue eyes going wild with sudden panic. “By the Paragons, not so loudly!” He sucked in a breath, then let it out on a long, uneven sigh. One hand pressed against his chest again. “My word, I’m not cut out for this. I should have taken that job sweeping stables like Mother insisted.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Carver said, crossing his arms.

Aidan was inclined to agree with his brother—it was obvious Anso didn’t have it in him to go toe-to-toe with the most dangerous organized criminal rings in Kirkwall—but they _did_ desperately need the money. If the gold was good… “Make it worth my time and I’ll help you,” he said. Carver jerked up, but he kept his tongue when Aidan lifted a hand. Anso might not have been able to handle the Carter and Coterie, but _they_ could…and Aidan had to admit, the idea of taking a piss at the Chantry felt good, even if it meant helping out a handful of Templars. He’d take his pleasures where he could.

Anso’s eyes were so wide they looked ready to pop out of his head. “Oh, I will! Or, I’ll try to anyway.” He cleared his throat. “The gentlemen conduct their business at night, in a little hovel within the alienage. If you have to kill them, then I guess it can’t be avoided. But I’m sure they’ll be reasonable?”

“We’ll be sure to ask nicely,” Aidan said. “Wait here; if your cargo’s to be found, we’ll find it for you.”

The dwarf offered a grateful—if somewhat watery—smile, and the four of them fell in together. Carver kept his peace until they were well out of the bazaar and threading through the slums toward the Elven alienage. Once they passed under their own hovel door, however, his brother’s patience snapped.

“This is _madness,_ ” Carver protested. “That dwarf’ll piss himself at first sign of the Coterie. We can’t trust him, Aidan.”

“We don’t have to trust him,” Aidan said, grip tightening around his stave. “We’re not going into business together—he wants his goods, and we can retrieve them for him. We’ll get a fistful of gold and never cross paths again.”

“But the Carta and Coterie—”

“Are already on our trail. Helping Anso isn’t going to make us more or less wanted men.”

“And when your bloody Templars are nipping at our heels? What then, _brother_?”

Aidan fought the urge to swing around, to let the frustration he’d been fighting to keep in check over the last year come tearing out of him in a firestorm. It was no secret that Carver blamed him for Bethany’s death. They never talked about it—of course not; that was what healthy, functional families did—but he didn’t need to put it in so many words for Aidan to read it in their increasingly tense interactions. Worse than that, however, was his creeping suspicion that Mother blamed him too.

It was the way she looked at him sometimes, then quickly away. It was the way she said Bethany’s name. It was the way she fussed and fretted over Carver every time they went out on a job, never once meeting Aidan’s eyes.

The accusation rang loudly throughout their little hovel, following him night after night into his empty, Voice-less dreams. It haunted him the way memories of his little sister haunted him, the light leaving her laughing brown eyes, blood flecking her heart-shaped face.

He supposed, if he were being honest…part of him blamed himself for Bethany’s death, too.

So he ducked his head, letting Carver’s words hang over him like the sword of Damocles, and said _nothing_. “This way,” Aidan murmured, hyperaware of Varric and Aveline’s eyes on him. He led the way down the pitched steps toward the elven alienage, focusing with all his might on the job ahead. What else could he do?

The alienage somehow managed to be both cramped and sprawling with a warren of alleyways and tunnels criss-crossing the spare square footage the city elves had been allotted. A central courtyard was the only open area in the entire district, its cobbled stones worn uneven by years of foot traffic, its great vhenadahl standing silent sentinel over Kirkwall’s least-regarded citizens. Candles flickered in chipped votives at its base, and rust-red paint crept along the mighty roots and up its trunk. Swirls of silvery-white amongst the red caught the moonlight; they mimicked the curling scars etched onto his own flesh, familiar and terrible all at once.

He looked away.

“Keep your eyes open,” Aidan said, deliberately turning his back on the massive tree. “The smugglers’ base is around here somewhere.”

They searched, though not for long. It was simple enough to find the right hovel. A small, subtle mark had been scratched over the stoop in white chalk, easily recognizable to anyone who had studied the smuggling rings of Kirkwall. (Which, thanks to Aidan and Carver’s year-long service to Athenril, they’d had plenty of time to do.) Varric tugged Bianca free and moved in first, checking for traps. Aveline went next, because she was _Aveline_ , followed by a wary Aidan. Carver, grumbling, took the rear.

“Trap,” Varric said in a low voice, crouching by one of the two inner doors. He set his crossbow aside and tugged free a small, flat blade, teasing it along the edges of the cleverly hidden pressure-plate. “What are they trying to do, ruin my boots?”

Aveline frowned. “Less talking and more progress, Varric,” she chided, but he just tsked and jimmied the blade deeper.

The plate gave a faint hiss as the mechanism was disabled, and Varric spun his knife with a playful grin before sliding it back into his boot, standing with crossbow in hand. “Piece of cake,” he said.

“Those tend to be famous last words,” Aidan warned with a return grin, turning the knob and pushing the door open…right into the first of the cutpurses crouched and waiting for them. Didn’t it just figure?

“You were _saying_?” Carver snapped as they dove into the fight. He went charging past, giant sword swinging, and Aidan cast a cone of cold just to avoid getting hit in the face with a spurt of blood. He huffed a breath, bringing the end of his staff down hard on his nearest attacker’s head…but he barely had time to do more than cast a force bolt before the last of them was already toppling like a sack of rotten fruit.

Aidan paused mid-swing, mana dissipating around him as he blinked. The ambush had been well-executed, but the actual smugglers had been so easily defeated that it was almost laughable. He glanced over to meet Aveline’s eyes, brows climbing; she was frowning too, not even a little winded, two bodies sprawled at her feet.

“ _Well_.” Aidan glanced around the room, blinking rapidly. “That was anticlimactic.”

Carver grunted and kicked aside a badly cracked leather helmet. “Surprise surprise,” he said. “That seemed too easy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he decided. He stepped over one of the bodies and moved to the trunk sitting conspicuously in the center of the room. “We’ll collect Anso’s goods and clear out of here. An easy mark doesn’t mean we don’t deserve the gold.” He crouched, examining the latches the way Varric had shown him (though, because he wasn’t an _idiot_ , he waited for the dwarf’s low hum of approval before he actually touched the thing) before sliding off the busted lock and throwing open the lid.

He expected to see lines of bottles filled with ghostly blue liquid. He expected the strange, almost chilly scent of lyrium to sting his nostrils. He _didn’t_ expect what he actually found.

“It’s empty,” Aidan said flatly.

Varric cursed. “Waste of bloody time!”

“I guess we have no choice but to go back to Anso and tell him.” He frowned down at the empty chest for a long minute before sighing and pushing to his feet. There was blood on his boots and bodies all around; Maker, what a waste. “Come on.”

Aidan carefully wove through the crumpled bodies and back out into the central square…then froze at the sight of a score far more seasoned mercenaries waiting for them, weapons drawn, muscles tensed for attack. _These_ were no untried boys, Aidan could see. A fight with them wouldn’t be so quick or so entirely without cost.

“Well,” Aidan said, tone deliberately light. He shifted into a subtle attack stance. “This is awkward. Are we late to the party?”

A heavily armored woman pushed to the front. “That’s not the elf,” she snapped, gesturing toward Aidan with the point of her blade. “Who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” one of the men answered. “We were told to kill whoever enters the house.” He shifted his stance, his sword’s pitted metal catching light from the low-hanging moon. “I aim to follow my orders; you’ll do the same unless you want to end up on Danarius’s slab.”

The metal whirr of Bianca being cocked was very welcome. “Well,” Varric said conversationally. “We can’t have that, now can we?”

And all at once, the fighting began in earnest.

Aidan had heard all the clichés about time speeding up or slowing down during battle. Back when he was a wide-eyed Ferelden apostate, he actually believed some of the tales the mercs brought to town. Now, swinging between one knot of fighters to the next, moving with practiced ease, he knew better. Time didn’t race or crawl—it was _fluid_ , bending around him like a stream breaking over the solid heft of a rock. He felt it slipping against his skin as he fell into the dance; mana thrummed beneath his skin and he felt…quiet inside. Perfectly still, _serene_. He called an order to flank and his friends flowed into place, as if crashing against his shore. Armed men fell before them, helpless. Hopeless.

They were a wave coming down like a hammer; whenever they fought like this, time was theirs to command.

The last of the mercs shuddered as the ice spell leached away the last of his strength. Aidan spun his staff, watching as the man staggered, then went crashing to the cobblestones, armor clamoring as he jerked…then went completely still. Only the captain remained, cornered by the main steps that led out of the alienage, eyes wide. Wild.

“I don’t know who you are, friend,” he murmured, voice low, “but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here.” He half-turned, eyes still locked on Aidan as he yelled back toward the steps. “Lieutenant, I want _everyone_ in the clearing! Now!”

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline muttered.

“Prepare yourselves,” Aidan said, balancing warily on the balls of his feet, waiting for the flood of attackers. The four of them may have been able to cut a bloody swath through whatever came their way, but void take it all, they were _exhausted_. He was nearing the end of his mana after three battles in a row, and he wasn’t sure he had enough lyrium on hand to see him through another wave like the last one.

This could get very, very ugly.

There was a scrape of metal against stone and Aidan sucked in a serrated breath, muscles tensing as he prepared a spell. He’d launch into the offensive the moment the first of the men came into view, he decided. Maybe he could trap the initial wave in a cone of cold; maybe they’d get lucky and he could buy them enough time to flank the rest of the horde. Maybe—

A soldier staggered into view. “Captain,” he hissed, voice _wet_. He lurched when he hit the last of the stairs, stumbling into a graceless sprawl. Aidan watched in silent shock as the lone merc tumbled lifelessly to the cobblestones, blood a garish halo about his staring face. The alienage went very still.

Hushed.

_Waiting._

And then a voice— _his_ voice, his _Voice_ , Maker, no, it wasn’t possible; it couldn’t be _real_ —followed, gravel-rough and cutting deep to his core. His entire body quaked in response. “Your men are dead and your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aidan gasped, nearly sagging under the weight of it. Varric twisted to give him an odd look; Carver was frowning as he edged closer, one gauntleted hand lifting to grip Aidan’s shoulder. He may as well have tried to catch sunlight—all at once, Aidan felt as if he’d been wrenched from reality, as if the ground had become grains of sand beneath his feet and he was staggering, struggling not to fall. He gripped the shaft of his staff with trembling fingers (he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, suddenly shaking helplessly where he stood) and watched with a gutpunch of pure, blinding _shock_ as a shadow moved across the pitted wall, coalescing into—

Leto.

_Leto._

Somehow, some way, after all this time, the universe had brought him _Leto_ again.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aidan said again, eyes stinging. His voice was so torn and lost it could have been the boy he used to be whispering from deep inside the shell of the man he now was. Carver’s grip on him tightened and Aveline murmured, “Oh, Hawke,” as _Leto_ paused at the landing, coldly studying the lieutenant.

He was older than Aidan remembered, taller and broader through the shoulders. The unselfconscious elegance of his youth had transfigured into an easy, deadly grace of adulthood. His hair was shorter and a shock of white instead of its familiar black, and there were glimmering marks across his chin and swirling down his throat in a perfect mirror of Aidan’s own hidden scars. From that shared night in the Fade, Aidan thought. Images kept slipping through his fingers, memories flashing like flickers of distant lightning as he stared at his soulmate lost to him so long ago. Remembering:

Leto’s slow smile as he stepped close. The brush of his fingers along Aidan’s jaw. The rasp of his voice, dropped low and possessive as he murmured _you are mine._

The flash of terror in his eyes, and the blood, the blood and pain and madness snapping at their heels as the ritual remade them. They bore the same scars. They had gone through so much. Leto had brought him hope and despair and years of pain, and he was…

He was…

 _Everything,_ he was _everything._

And he was lifting his gaze to meet Aidan’s for the first time in far too many years.

Aidan _felt_ the moment their eyes met. It jolted through him, electric and breathless and more right than anything had ever been in his life. Leto faltered, stumbling as he moved down the last of the steps, before drawing closer as if compelled. He didn’t even look at the armed lieutenant as he passed, eyes locked squarely on Aidan’s, head tilted as if he were trying to place him. As if something about Aidan stirred a memory locked deep inside—a waking dream, a promise in the Fade, lost to time and somehow, someway, reborn in this moment.

Fragile and caged; the air crackled around them.

And he was. Not. Looking. Away.

 _Leto_ , Aidan thought, lips parting around the unspoken name. All around him, he could smell the long-forgotten tang of orange trees and the sea. He could feel its wind ruffling his dark hair. So many years had passed, so much had changed—and yet for a moment, he was fifteen years old and so in love it _hurt_ inside.

Heart thundering: _Leto, Leto, Leto._

And, _I am yours._

Until the lieutenant suddenly broke the moment with a snarled, “You’re going nowhere, slave!” and moved to clap a hand on Leto’s shoulder.

Aidan lurched forward, already calling up a defensive spell, but the mana died when he felt an answering spark _surge_ inside of Leto. Blue-white light flickered along his markings and his eyes flared bright as he turned, knocking aside the man’s hand with an almost animal growl—

“ _I am not a slave!_ ”

—and plunged his fist, pulsing with ghostly power, through the merc’s chest.

If Aidan closed his eyes, he swore he could feel the pulse of a heartbeat against his palm; he could feel the wild flare of power licking across his skin and burning deeper and deeper into his flesh. He felt each curve and coil of his familiar-yet-not markings and tasted the bitter tang of raw lyrium on his stuttering breath. He felt everything _Leto_ felt, as if they had already been bound together—Maker take him, maybe they had. Maybe their souls had been tethered all this time, ever since that terrible night in the Fade.

And maybe he was just wishing so hard he was tricking himself into believing it was true.

His fingers clenched, and Aidan imagined he felt the heart give out as the merc’s body slumped lifeless to the ground. He dragged in a shaken breath and Leto was turning to look at him again; those big, green eyes fixed on his face, black brows drawing together beneath a fall of silver-white hair.

 _Do you feel it?_ Aidan wondered desperately, struggling to keep the shock, the hope, the _hunger_ , off his face. _Is it real? Do you remember me? Please, please remember._

“I apologize,” Leto said in an oddly formal tone, tilting his head. “When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so…numerous.”

And that, he supposed, was his answer. That was what the Maker thought of his prayers. If Leto remembered the boy in the Fade, it was as nothing more than a hazy dream of long ago. Aidan was nothing to him.

He fought to voice a reply, struggling to— Maker, do something, say something. His throat had closed and he was _cold_ , a stranger in his own skin. If the other half of his own soul didn’t know him, who was he anyway?

The silence stretched, long and painful.

Varric, Andraste bless him, finally came to the rescue with, “Don’t worry. We do this sort of thing often.”

Leto’s gaze flicked briefly toward the dwarf before moving back to Aidan’s. It was almost as if he was as reluctant as Aidan to look away. Or was that wishful thinking too? “Impressive,” he said. “My name is Fenris. These men were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister’s lost property—namely myself. They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”

Fenris. Fenris, not Leto. _What has happened to you?_ He struggled to pull himself together enough to respond, aware of expectant eyes on him. “I’m happy I helped.” His voice was gravel over glass.

Carver shifted at his side, shoulder brushing against Aidan’s—deliberately. Aveline was at his other side, hovering close, ever the mother hen. _I must look ready to topple_ , he thought.

“I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain,” Leto—no, _Fenris_ —said slowly, almost shyly. He cleared his throat and looked away. “If I may ask, what was in the chest? The one they kept in the house?”

“It was empty,” Carver said. There was a combative edge to his voice; Aidan reached out to grip his elbow, squeezing where the joints of armor gave way to soft, worn leather.

 _Don’t_ , he didn’t say. He didn’t need to—from the sour look Carver shot him, he understood well enough.

Fenris scowled off into the distance. “I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so, I had to know.”

“You were expecting something else?” Aveline countered.

“I was, but I shouldn’t have. It was bait, nothing more.”

Aidan wet his lips. “You didn’t need to lie to get my help,” he said. When Fenris tilted his chin to meet his eyes again, he had to fight against the painful shudder that rippled through him. _Remember me. Remember me. Please, please, remember me._

The silence stretched again for what felt like a very long time.

“That remains to be seen,” Fenris finally said before deliberately turning away. He crouched, graceful as ever, and began searching the dead lieutenant. It didn’t take long before he was sitting back on his heels with a dissatisfied hiss, a crude map in his hands. “It’s as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city.” Fenris straightened. “I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees.” And then he hesitated before adding, “I will need your help.”

_Yes, anything._

Aveline spoke before he could scramble for a more appropriate response. “It sounds like you intend to do more than just talk.”

Fenris jerked his chin, teeth flashing in a snarl. “Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and has sent so many hunters that I have lost count. And before that, he kept me on a _leash_ like a Qunari mage, a personal pet to mock Qunari custom.” His gauntleted fingers curled, map crinkling in his tightening grip. “So _yes_ , I intend to do more than just _talk_.”

“We’ll do it,” Aidan said before Aveline or Carver could protest. It didn’t matter what Fenris planned to do to his former master; Aidan would be by his side no matter what. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, lose him again—not after so long. Not after so much had been taken from him. He’d follow Fenris into the void if he had to. “ _I’ll_ do it. I’ll do whatever you need. I’m—”

 _I’m yours_ , he couldn’t say. The words hung heavy between them.

Fenris flushed and dropped his eyes, long lashes flickering against high cheekbones. “I…thank you. The magister is staying in a mansion in Hightown. I will find a way to repay you for your help,” he added. The low, Tevinter-accented scrape of it made Aidan shiver where he stood.

“You don’t have to,” Aidan began impulsively.

But Fenris’s head jerked up, green eyes flashing a warning. Blue-white light flickered against his skin before slowly fading away. “I will _repay_ you; I swear it.”

“We can always use a hired sword,” Varric murmured, idly checking over Bianca as if he weren’t subtly masterminding a way to keep Fenris close. The dwarf, Aidan thought dizzily, was far too clever for his own good—Andraste bless him forever. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble Hawke gets us into.”

“Very well. If that is agreeable with you?” Fenris murmured, gaze as heavy as a touch. “Hawke?”

 _Hawke_. His name, spoken with that voice—slowly, carefully, as if Fenris were testing it out… “Yes,” he managed. His thoughts were in riot. Maker, Leto was with him again at last. He was whole for the first time since he looked up at the sound of a young slave boy whisper-singing a lullaby in the depths of the Fade. Here was his Voice in the dark. Here was his promise in the Fade. Here was his _everything._

And it _hurt_ bone-deep to meet his eyes and be a stranger to him. It hurt almost more than he could bear.

How the void was he going to survive this?


	18. Carver

Aidan could barely keep to his feet, Leto…Fenris… _whatever_ that void-taken elf was calling himself now…seemed evenly split between forging ahead and hanging back to make eyes at his brother, and Carver couldn’t decide who he was most furious with.

The Maker himself, he supposed. The whole bloody universe.

“Come on,” he muttered beneath his breath, reaching to take Aidan’s elbow as gently as he could. His brother was hiding it well, but Carver could read the terrible shock all of this had to be in the pallor of his face, the tense lines of his body—the way he stumbled every few steps, as if he was struggling not to collapse. If they had been alone, Carver would have shoved him into a safe corner until he’d collected his wits again. He would have maybe, possibly, embraced him.

Perhaps.

If he felt like it.

But he couldn’t embrace him or yell at him or make him take a moment to pull the tattered edges of his composure together—not with Aveline and Varric and _that damned elf_ around. Carver may not have liked tagging along in his big brother’s shadow, but he knew enough to realize a good deal of the respect they’d garnered in Kirkwall came from Aidan’s reputation. Coddling him like a child or scolding him like a fishwife were out of the question.

So, instead, he walked close to Aidan’s side and _glowered_ if anyone so much as looked his way.

“Someone is in a cheerful mood,” Varric noted as they climbed the steps into Hightown. The elf glanced over his shoulder, big eyes searching out Aidan before skittering away again. The moonlight caught in the swirls of lyrium painting his chin and throat—an exact replica of the scars Aidan had worn since the night his stupid magic had almost stolen him away for good—and the sight of it was enough to have Carver’s free hand balling into an impotent fist. He would have given anything to punch the elf in the throat for all the trouble he’d caused over the years. For all the fear and worry and heartbreak.

 _Keep walking, you ass,_ he thought darkly, brows knitting into a glower. _Oh, you just keep on walking._

“Cheerful _and_ chatty! Why, Junior, I don’t know if I can keep up with your conversational acrobatics.”

Carver slid his glower over to the dwarf, bristling, but Aidan’s hand dropped to his forearm and…Maker, he actually felt himself _deflate_ at the soft touch. Aidan didn’t want him to start anything with anyone, that much was obvious. (Not even if the dwarf started it _first_.) Carver was old enough to pick and choose his own battles, but his ears were too full with the echo of those long-ago screams to push it.

This time.

The dwarf was bloody lucky, that was all.

“ _So_ friendly today, you lot.”

“Hush, Varric,” Aveline chided gently. She pulled Varric back from the main group by a few steps, tilting her red head to his gold. Carver didn’t need three guesses to know what she was telling him—she’d been with the Hawke family long enough that she knew a few of their most carefully guarded secrets. Carver had warned Aidan that letting her get so close was a mistake, but Aidan… Well.

Aidan had never met a lost cause he didn’t want to champion, and they were beginning to gather quite the menagerie of friends thanks to his big, bleeding heart. It was going to get them into a world of trouble some day—of that Carver had no doubt.

Aidan made a low noise, and Carver’s attention snapped to him immediately, muscles tightening in reflexive worry. “My nose always itches when people are gossiping about me,” Aidan said with a ghost of his usual grin. He was gripping his staff tight enough to make his knuckles bleed white, and his eyes kept darting toward Fenris, who was nearly twelve paces ahead by now, plowing through the dark Hightown streets like the prow of a ship. Every time Fenris glanced over his shoulder and met his brother’s eyes, Aidan trembled.

Carver ground his teeth and tightened his grip on Aidan’s elbow. “It’s a wonder you’ve got sense in it at all, then, the way the whole city goes on about you,” he muttered. “Mostly thanks to Varric trying to make you out like a bloody hero in all his stories.”

“ _Entirely_ thanks to Varric, I think. I’d be a pretty dull adventurer without him to liberally varnish the tales of my dubious glory.”

The elf took a left, leading up another set of marble steps and out of sight. Aidan nearly stumbled as he hurried his pace, only relaxing when the silver head was in sight again. Damn it. _Damn_ it.

Carver let go of his arm. “It’s not right that he’s here,” he suddenly snapped. It was all he could do not to reach for the hilt of his sword. “Hasn’t he done enough?”

“ _Carver_.”

“No,” Carver said, lifting his hands in a warding gesture. “All right? _No_. You’re just going to excuse that Maker-taken elf for everything he did to you, to all of us, because he’s your bloody…” He had the decency to glance behind to make sure Varric and Aveline couldn’t hear, then ahead, to verify Fenris was out of earshot. “…your bloody _Voice_ , like that makes all the trouble he’s caused go away.”

“ _Carver_ ,” Aidan said again, expression cracked open and vulnerable, but Carver refused to meet his eyes—refused to look anywhere but ahead now as they tromped off to do the elf’s dirty work yet again, some more, as _always_. “You don’t understand.”

And now he wanted to punch _Aidan_ , wonderful. “Oh, don’t I? Why don’t you explain it to me then, _Hawke_? Why don’t you tell me how it’s all right that he nearly killed you, scarred you, _broke_ you, broke our _family_ , just because you _love him_. No, no, just because some stupid magic makes you _think_ you love him. That’s what the whole Voice thing is, isn’t it? Magic ruling man, all over again—just like the Chantry warns about. Just like—”

His own voice had been steadily rising higher and higher, louder and louder. It cut off with a yelp when an untriggered smoke grenade rolled between his feet; he nearly went crashing into a pillar to avoid stomping on it and releasing the toxin.

Fenris glanced over his shoulder at the noise with a deep frown. Aidan rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“Oops,” Varric said, stooping to pick up the grenade before Carver could kick it away. “Clumsy me. Hawke, why don’t we trot ahead before Broody manages to lose us for good?”

Carver straightened. “But I wasn’t,” he began, outraged. Varric smoothly ushered Aidan ahead; Aveline just as smoothly checked his shoulder with her own armored pauldron and kept him behind. The meddling busybodies.

“Gently,” she said, voice pitched low, for him alone. “You know better than most that with this, we must tred _gently_.”

“I’m tired of coddling mages,” Carver snarled, but he didn’t push ahead to where Fenris had come to a stop at the steps of a grand Hightown mansion. Danarius’s home? He’d turned to exchange a few quiet, tense words with Aidan, and it was all Carver could do not to go charging in to play chaperone.

Aveline shook her head and unsheathed her sword. “We both know that isn’t true.”

Who was she to decide that for him? Carver cast the guardswoman his most affronted glare, but she was already moving past him, joining the others as they filed cautiously into the mansion. Carver stood frozen stubbornly in the street for a good thirty seconds, hands fisted, wanting to turn on his heel and stalk back to Lowtown. Let Aidan have his stupid _Voice_. Let the whole lot of them bend over backwards to cater to someone who’d tricked them into his service in the first place. Carver was too smart to fall for that.

 _He_ wasn’t the one pissing in the face of the Carta, the Coterie, the bloody _Chantry_.

 _He_ wasn’t the one scarred and trembling as a newborn babe and mooning over a surly elf with no more manners than a cur.

 _He_ wasn’t rushing to do anyone’s bidding, not if it meant bowing to the whims of the man who’d helped make his life hell. Not if it meant lifting a finger for _Leto_. Not if it meant—

Through the still-open mansion door came the unmistakable sound of shattering crockery and an incredibly _loud_ shout of, “Danarius! I know you’re here! You can’t hide from me!” Which…so much for the element of surprise.

“They’ll get themselves killed without me,” he told himself even as he began to hurry toward the mansion doorway—began to _run_ , unstrapping his huge sword, heart pounding unevenly in his chest. 

He heard Fenris bellow another fool warning and Varric snapped, “ _Wait_ for me to check for traps please.”

Carver rounded the corner just in time to see Varric crouch by an interior doorway and Aidan—hand trembling as if he couldn’t quite control himself—lightly touch his Voice’s shoulder.

It was meant as a calming gesture. Carver couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen Aidan reach for Bethany, the number of times he’d felt that comforting hand close over his own shoulder. It was gentle but firm, warm, a light pressure and then gone. It was nothing.

And yet Fenris jolted as if Aidan had thrown the full weight of his strongest spell into it. He whirled, blue light flickering along his skin in warning, and all at once both Aveline and Carver had their blades pointed toward his throat, pivoting naturally toward the threat to their leader.

 _Just give me a reason_ , Carver thought, itching to push the tip of his blade into the hollow of Fenris’s throat, but Aidan was snapping, “ _No_. Stand down,” and lifting his own hands in mingled apology and surrender.

Aveline lowered her blade. Carver glowered and inched forward, but Aidan slapped a hand onto the flat of his blade and shoved it away from Fenris. “I said _stand down_ ,” he said, voice cold and steady—at least, Carver thought bitterly, he wasn’t trembling like a newly plucked maiden anymore. “I apologize,” Aidan added to Fenris, eyes moving back to his. They locked and held, weighty as a touch in their own way.

Carver watched as Fenris swallowed…then slowly nodded. The flickering blue light faded away. “It is… No matter,” he said slowly in his sandpaper-rough voice.

“ _No matter,_ ” Carver mimicked, his own voice pitched low. 

Only Varric seemed to hear him, chuffing a soft laugh as he stepped back from the door. “Safe to go charging recklessly through once more,” he said, putting aside his tools and hoisting Bianca. “After you, Broody.”

Fenris— _Broody_ , ha!—immediately turned away from Aidan as if suddenly remembering why he was here and slammed through the door, clearly taking Varric at his word. He was bristling again like an angry cat, yowling, “Danarius! Where are you, _master_?”

“Subtle, this elf,” Varric said, sotto. “Very, very subtle.”

“Shut it and help him,” Aidan countered, following in Fenris’s wake; he had his staff in hand and was already calling up a spell as the cracked tile floor suddenly began to swarm with living shadows. Writhing, undulating, black as pitch and pulling themselves into being with an electric hum that set Carver’s teeth on edge.

Shades. Brilliant.

“You didn’t say this Danarius was a blood mage,” Carver groused, but he threw himself into the battle nonetheless. It was nice to be fighting—simpler than trying to sort through all the complicated threads of feelings coursing between the lot of them. Feelings, Carver decided as he hacked at a shade, were messy. Feelings dragged you down when you were trying your hardest to be strong and made you worry about, oh, everyone, everything.

It would all be simpler if he could just shut them off like a switch. If he could just stop being aware of the way Aidan was practically bleeding his heart all across the filthy mansion floor as the elf tore through room after room searching for his old master.

If he could stop seeing Bethany when he closed his eyes.

Carver gripped the hilt of his sword tight tight tight and swung with everything he had, cleaving through a rage demon—Maker! What hornet’s nest had they stepped in this time, that _demons_ were involved?—as the shouts of combat swirled around him. The main hall was littered with bodies, both human (dead for hours, by the looks of them) and…decidedly not. Blood spattered the walls and streaks of gore made a slippery mess of the flagstones. Danarius had left the once-grand mansion in a sorry state, and the demons he had called to fight whomever came after him did little to improve the disarray.

He jerked his blade back, letting it slide from melting black flesh as Fenris bolted up the grand stairs toward the room at the very top. Varric called out after him—if there was going to be a trap, Carver had to agree, it would be there—but Fenris didn’t even pause before gripping the doorknob and flinging it wide.

And all at once, the hall went dark.

“That’s not a good sign,” Varric said. “Can we all agree that’s not a good sign?”

Carver cursed and took a careful step back, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to adjust his eyes to the sudden pitch. The air felt heavy around him, thick with spellwork—menacing. They were in serious trouble. Yet above them on the sweeping staircase, the elf snapped, “Danarius! Can you hear me? Your pets cannot stop us!” and it was all Carver could do not to throw down his sword in disgust.

“Can we _not_ taunt the blood mage?” he demanded, skin bristling at the whisper-soft _whisk whisk whisk_ of… _something_ crossing the unseen tiles toward him. Carver tightened his grip and moved slowly back again, casting about desperately for their attackers. He could _feel_ the shades watching him, could feel something else dark and cold and _hungry_ hovering at the periphery. “Aidan?”

If he was going to face untold terrors, he was going to do it back-to-back with his brother.

“Here,” Aidan said. “Hold very still.” There was no fear in his voice—no faint tremor to belie the cool confidence he wore like a cloak when he had to. Even Carver, who’d seen him grow from a skinny kid with wild black curls, who watched every night as he wrestled on the dirt-packed floor with Trouble and let his mother rest her head on his broad shoulder and crawled into the bed poverty forced them to share to steal all the covers… Even Carver straightened when he heard that voice, worry slipping away like mist beneath the heat of the sun.

They’d spit in the Maker’s face if they had to; they were _Hawkes_.

There was a heavy moment when the darkness seemed to press in from all sides and Carver _knew_ a shade was reaching for him under its protection, but he held steady, trusting, until the butt of Aidan’s staff hit the ground with a sudden _crack_. There was the heavy stench of ozone—his only warning—and then all at once the room was lit in a jerking, impossible tangle of lights.

It was like being caught in the eye of a storm. It was like…like nothing Carver could have imagined, could ever hope to put into words. He sucked in a breath, staring straight into the eyes of the creature that had been reaching for his throat. It jerked back, then began to writhe as streaks of lightning passed through its body over and over again—as lightning snaked through the entire _room_ , branching around Aveline, Varric, and Carver to strike like a viper anything that _moved_.

Carver cut his gaze to his left to watch Aidan, mesmerized by the unexpected…he would have said _impossible_ …display of power. Aidan stood at the storm’s center, lightning dancing over his skin, making him glow with flickering blue-white light, beautiful and unexpected—and terrible.

 _Frightening_. All at once, Aidan was _frightening_ , and Carver felt something tighten in his chest as he watched the storm rip from his brother’s fingertips and fell an entire room of shades in one breathless, awe-inspiring show.

This powerful man couldn’t be his brother; in this moment, he was a stranger.

And then, slowly, the lightning faded into pale flickers of static and the darkness lifted, leaving them standing at the bull’s-eye of an impossible swatch of destruction. The hall was very quiet. Almost… _reverent._

Aidan slowly lowered his staff and coughed into his fist. “Ah, well,” he said, looking up. Fenris was making his way down the steps, wary as a spooked cat. “Any luck finding Danarius?”

 _Casually_ , as if he hadn’t just blown past any prior cap to his abilities by a hundred-fold. As if he hadn’t suddenly become the most dangerous being in the room—in all of Kirkwall—between one breath and the next. Maker take them all.

“Gone,” Fenris said curtly. “I had hoped… No. It doesn’t matter any longer.” He hesitated at the foot of the steps, eyes locked with Aidan’s. There was something queer in his expression, some unknowable emotion. He wet his lips and tore his gaze away, visibly unsettled. “I…need some air.”

Carver watched Aidan watch _Fenris_ go. The sound of the main door closing echoed through the great hall.

Aidan closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Aveline murmured. “How long have you been able to do _that_?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “Not long. I think…I think it’s because he’s here. I think it’s…” He looked up again, expression impossible to read. “It’s him. It’s all because of him. And I’m— What if he doesn’t— I have to—”

Aidan turned, instinctively seeking out Aveline, and Carver couldn’t help the bitter surge of jealousy that whipped through him quick and bright as Aidan’s newest power when Aveline reached out to brush a lock of hair from his brother’s brow. The touch was as tender as if they were the siblings—it reminded him, viscerally, of the _real_ sister they had lost. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Aidan admitted to her.

“You’ll do what you must,” she said, gripping the back of his neck and touching her brow to his once—fiery red and dark, warrior and mage, sharing undercurrents of emotion Carver couldn’t hope to follow.

He took a step back, sheathing his sword, and studiously avoided meeting the dwarf’s eyes, knowing his own would betray far, far too much.

“What I must,” Aidan said. He straightened, a strained smile on his face. “Okay. Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve all seen enough bloodshed for the night.” He touched Aveline’s shoulder lightly before pulling away, pulling himself together piece by piece as if dressing for the day. Carver silently watched as his brother’s shoulders straightened, his spine went stiff; he held his head high as he picked his way through the corpses, leading out into the muggy Hightown night.

Surprising everyone except perhaps Aidan, the elf was waiting when they stepped outside. He straightened, pale light flickering at his collar, tracing the markings etched into his flesh. His huge green eyes narrowed at the sight of Aidan. “It never ends,” Fenris said, almost like an accusation. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage.”

 _Mage_. The way he spat the word sent a cold shiver up Carver’s spine. 

“I saw you cast that spell inside,” he accused, stalking closer. Both Varric and Aveline subtly shifted their grip on their weapons. “I should have realized sooner what you really were. Tell me then, what manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?”

Aidan didn’t flinch away. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. His eyes scanned Fenris’s face, expression open yet revealing very little. “What do you think I seek?”

The elf colored but didn’t back down, those warning lights flickering across his skin as if he were preparing to attack. “You are skilled—I know that much. Whatever else you may be, I could not yet say.”

Well, _fuck that_. “If you have a problem with my brother, you have a problem with me,” Carver snapped, stepping in close to Aidan’s side—shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall, a unified front. He kept his expression grim even when Aidan’s fingers brushed his gauntlet in silent thanks.

Fenris frowned, and the threatening light slowly faded. “I imagine I appear ungrateful,” he murmured. “If so, I apologize, for nothing could be farther from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt.”

“You owe me nothing,” Aidan said.

“That is not true. Whatever else I could say, I…would not have been able to defeat so many on my own.” He reached for a coinpurse and offered it to Aidan. When Aidan did not reach for it, Fenris made a low noise beneath his breath and thrust it into Varric’s hands instead. “Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised. I thank you for what you did for me. Should you find yourself in need of assistance…I would gladly render it.”

“You didn’t seem all that thrilled with me a moment ago.”

“You are not Danarius,” Fenris said simply. “Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen.”

Aidan tilted his head. “And if I am?”

The look Fenris shot his brother was enough to have Carver’s teeth on edge. He stiffened, fingers itching to reach for his blade—but no, _no_. It wouldn’t come to that.

Would it?

“If you are,” Fenris said, “I will rip your heart out with my bare fist and watch the light leave your eyes.”

Aidan’s lips actually _twitched_ at that, the complete nutter. “Fair enough.” He tilted his head toward a broad stone stoop several paces away, moving to take a seat. Fenris hesitated, then carefully moved to join him, perching on the stone warily but tilting toward Aidan as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stay away. When Carver took a step to join them, both Aveline _and_ Varric grabbed onto his armor, hauling him back.

“ _Hey_ ,” he hissed.

“Give them space!” Aveline hissed back.

“I want to see how this plays out!” Varric added with a shameless grin.

Aidan and Fenris’s low voices drifted toward them, though Carver had to shove the other two off and take a sulking step out into the street to be able to keep a clear eye on them. (And _obviously_ neither Aveline nor Varric had had siblings they gave _two tosses about_ if they were so void-bent on keeping him from interfering. Didn’t they realize just how bad this whole thing could go at any moment?) “Your old master must want something more than just a runaway slave,” Aidan was saying.

“He doesn’t want me at all—just the markings on my skin. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. And now, he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

Wait…was Aidan flirting with the crazy elf? _Gross_.

Fenris didn’t appear to agree with Carver’s kneejerk repulsion. He flushed and turned his head with a low, husky chuckle. It sounded raw in his throat, as if he hadn’t had cause to laugh in a very, very long time. The color crept up his ears and he cleared his throat. “Ah. Well. The truth is…” He curled his fingers into tight fists, then looked up again, expression growing serious. “I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings on me. It was Danarius’s choice—one he now regrets.”

“I’ve seen some of your abilities. Do they come from those markings?”

“Some. All I know is that even in the Imperium, warriors such as myself are rare. Perhaps they believe I should feel honored. A magister _would_ think so. In Tevinter, the magisters hold all the power. Over the Chantry, over the Imperial court, over life itself. It is nothing for one to own a slave—Danarius had many. But none he valued so much as me.”

Aidan’s voice dropped lower, gentler. “Then how did you get away?”

Fenris snorted. “Is it not enough that I did? I carved my path to freedom in blood. I left that life behind, yet his bounty hunters follow me no matter where I go.” His hands clenched again. “I will run no longer.”

“Do you think your master will keep chasing you?”

“He is too proud not to. Perhaps one day the hunt will cost him more than he is willing to pay, but I doubt that matters any longer.” All at once, Fenris stood, flexing his hands as if fighting some unexpected emotion—he seemed willing to look anywhere but at Aidan. “But that is enough for now. If you wish to dig into my past, _mage_ , you will need more than tonight to be welcome.”

Aidan stood, graceful—yet Carver could see the subtle sway. Did he need elfroot? Lyrium? Or was it just the strain of keeping himself together so close to Fenris? His voice was still smooth when he spoke, but Carver could see the cracks forming around the edges of his expression. “Mage again. Are you going to have a problem with me and my companions?”

Fenris lifted his chin. “I will watch you carefully if we travel together. I can promise no more.”

“Fair enough,” he said, shoulders going tight. “I’m planning an expedition I might need help with. If you’re interested? You… _are_ planning on staying in Kirkwall for now?”

“…perhaps. For now. Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it.”

“Fenris,” Aidan said, meeting his eyes. The tension between the two men was tight as a stretched lute string; it vibrated the air. “If Danarius comes for you, he will have to go through me first. You may not trust me yet, but you can trust that. I’m not going to let him touch you again.”

Carver shivered, fighting the urge to shift where he stood waiting. The low promise in Aidan’s voice, the _threat_ — He meant every word. And after his unexpected display of power this night, Carver had no delusions that Aidan would be unable to keep his promise.

Aidan would rip anyone who threatened his beloved Voice apart at the seams. He…wasn’t sure how he should feel about that.

“I see,” Fenris murmured, voice dropping low, practically scraping gravel-rough between them. The flush was back, coloring his cheeks, up his ears. His hands lifted subtly, then dropped again. “Very well. Beyond that, I am at your disposal.” Fenris sketched a shallow bow, and Aidan…

Aidan _grinned_ , as if the long-lost pieces of himself were finally, _finally_ falling back into place.


	19. Fenris

Fenris had assumed that a week, two, in the strange Ferelden mage’s company would be enough to inoculate himself against the disconcerting… _fluttering_ he felt in his presence. Of that, he was sorely mistaken.

If anything, it was growing _worse_.

“Fastevas,” he muttered beneath his breath. He was sitting in slowly growing darkness. The ruined mansion was silent around him, though he could hear the stirrings of Hightown’s nightlife slowly coming into full swing. The occasional raised voice made its way to him as people passed beneath his window (spider-webbed with cracks and unlikely to keep out the chill) and some fool had begun singing snatches of a popular Orlesian ballad. He knew enough of the language to recognize a word here and there:

Love. Fidelity. Longing. Honor.

_Bah._

Fenris grabbed the bottle of fine red and took a long pull, eyes squeezing shut against all awareness of time…feeling…void-taken anticipation. He was sitting in the drawing twilight waiting like some damsel in a gilded tale for the hour when Hawke habitually came to call. Not speak with him about a job, not discuss tactics or break down the successes and failures of their latest mission— _that_ Fenris could have handled with ease.

No, on these nights, at this time, as reliable as the tides that swept along the wounded coast, Aidan Hawke came to…to… _talk_. To tell stories about his life in Ferelden and share a bottle of wine well into the night, as if he and Fenris were anything more than passing acquaintances. As if Fenris were one of his _friends._

The first time it had happened, Fenris had sat straight-backed in his chair, listening with mingled confusion and suspicion as Hawke told him stories about being a boy in Redcliffe—playing in the shadow of the arl’s castle, swimming along the shores of its great lake, hiding the spark of magic that would have revealed him for what he was. He hadn’t known what to say in the face of such prolonged confession, so he’d said nothing. Hawke had finished his story and they’d drank together in relative silence until he took his leave late into the night. Fenris had remained where he was for some time after, nursing the last dregs and staring thoughtfully at Hawke’s empty chair.

He couldn’t have said what the mage’s purpose had been, but he’d assumed it was over and done with, like a summer rain—brief and unexpected and not entirely unpleasant.

Until it had happened again.

And then again.

And then again, and again, until he was _waiting_ on Hawke with an uncomfortable fluttering deep in his belly, hoping for…he didn’t know what. More of the man’s life story? A laugh, a smile, the weight of his eyes as soft as a touch? _Venhedis_. He refused to think in such a way.

Fenris scowled down at the scarred table and took another pull of wine. His scowl only deepened when he heard the scuff of a footfall and the low, three-note tone Hawke habitually whistled to let Fenris know it was him and not some fool assassin sent by Danarius. He was the type of man who thought to do simple things like that, Fenris had noticed. He refused to let that small kindness impact his opinion one way or the other.

“You are late,” Fenris said when he heard the door push wider. He kept his eyes trained on the half-full bottle, listening as Hawke unlatched his strangely unornamented staff and propped it out of sight. “I would have finished the wine without you.”

Hawke gave a chuff of laughter, moving to take his usual seat. “I’ve seen the cellar,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re in any danger of running out.”

Fenris made a dismissive noise.

“But I am sorry I’m late. I ran into some Invisible Sisters who just wouldn’t take _I have a prior engagement_ for an answer.”

Fenris’s head snapped up at that, damnable heart leaping in his chest _for no good reason_. He glowered even as he anxiously (anxiously! Over a man he barely knew!) scanned Hawke for injuries. True, Hawke was one of the most powerful non-blood-mages he had ever met, but even still…

Even still, _Danarius_ had needed bodyguards like Fenris to shield him. Magic was strong but not infallible, and most magisters Fenris had met were weak once stripped of their mana. Going against the Invisible Sisters alone could have been a costly mistake. Hawke could have been hurt. He could have been _killed._

“It’s all right, Fenris,” Hawke murmured, voice pitched low, and it took _that_ for Fenris to come back to himself—to realize he’d reached forward to grasp Hawke’s wrist in a desperate grip, fingers digging into the smooth leather of his gloves as if he never intended to let go.

Festis bei umo canavarum, what was _wrong_ with him?

He let go of Hawke with an annoyed hiss of breath, dropping his hands out of sight—and subtly curling them into and out of fists, fighting to ignore the baffling electric current that ran through him at Hawke’s touch. He wanted to blame magic, but even Fenris had to be fair in the face of the evidence—he had touched and been touched by magisters before, and none of them had made him feel this…coiled, breathless anticipation sinking down into his bones.

Only Aidan Hawke.

 _Who are you, what are you, how can you make me feel this way?_ He scowled and pushed the wine bottle across the table. “Drink,” Fenris said, “and tell your fool stories, if you must.” He fought against a flush when Hawke just quirked his lips at him, lashes dipping. “You were last in Lothering.”

“Just before the Blight,” Hawke agreed, gloved fingers curling around the bottle. He took a measured sip, eyes on Fenris. “Carver was in the army when our king was killed at Ostagar. He deserted—not that there was much of an army left to desert—and came back to warn us just in time. The hoard was already snapping at our heels by the time we made it out of the village, and it was a fight just to reach the main roads. All around us, houses were burning, and the _screams_ …” He wet his lips and dropped his gaze. “But there was nothing we could do but run. So we did. We _ran_ , as far and as fast as we could. They dogged us relentlessly. My sister died on the way to Kirkwall. An ogre took her. I still see it, sometimes, when I’m drifting off to sleep.”

“Bethany,” Fenris said at once. Though he sometimes tried to feign disinterest, he could recite the entire tale from memory. “You speak of her often.”

Hawke’s smile turned wistful. “Do I? I suppose you’re one of the few I _can_ talk to about her. Carver and Mother blame me for her death, and whenever I so much as say her name— Well.” He rolled the half-full bottle between his palms, lashes a dark fan against his cheeks. “For their sake, and in the name of keeping the peace, I try not to mention Bethy often when they’re around. It seems wrong to me, though, the way none of us talk about her now, talk about Father. It’s as if we’ve let grief excise them from our lives.” 

Hawke made a frustrated noise and took a long pull of wine before pushing the bottle back over. He casually wiped his mouth with his gloved fingers; Fenris refused to let himself watch. “It makes me want to shout sometimes. Aveline lost her husband, and we talk about him all the time. She _honors_ Wesley’s loss by sharing his story. I try to remind myself that grief takes us in our own way, so I try to channel my frustration into bashing cutpurses’ heads instead. And perhaps I am being a hypocrite. I know I checked out on everyone when I was fifteen and _you_ were taken from—”

He abruptly stopped. Went very pale.

“Hawke,” Fenris said in a warning tone. His skin was prickling, pulse beginning to pick up speed, to trip over itself. The sharp ends of his gauntlets dug into bare palms as he clenched his hands into fists. _This_ , Fenris thought dizzily. This was the point Hawke had been slowly circling around for weeks. _This_ was the hidden current he’d picked up between them.

But it didn’t make any sense.

Hawke wet his lips. “I…suppose that’s as good an opening as any,” he said, mostly to himself. Hawke shifted—practically _squirmed_ —in his seat before looking up to meet Fenris’s eyes. His skin was very pale against the dark shadow of his beard, the high-collared black tunic. “So,” he said, voice pitched low and _earnest_. “You’ve, ah, probably been wondering why I’ve been sharing my life story with you over these past few weeks.”

“ _Hawke_.”

Hawke had the grace to flush. “I could have been more graceful, but I didn’t know how else—” He paused, pressing his fingers together in a steeple. It looked remarkably like supplication, and Fenris had to look away to control the irrational urge to reach over the table and lay his hand over those trembling fingers.

Irrational and undeniable. The air was thrumming between them, electric. He felt himself tensing as he braced for whatever was to come. _When I was fifteen and you were taken from me_. Was it possible Hawke knew him from before, somehow? Ridiculous. Impossible. And yet something about those words was tolling like a bell inside his chest; he could barely _breathe._

“Fenris,” Hawke said, and something about the way he said his name had a rash of gooseflesh shivering down his arms. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. From the very first, really—from the moment I saw you standing at the steps to the alienage. But I wanted to… To give you a chance to know me before I did that, to know who I was and, and who I _wasn’t._ ” He dragged trembling fingers over his face, through his hair. In that gesture, he could have been a child of fifteen again. He looked so _lost_. “And, Maker, I wanted us to be on as even footing as I could manage. I never thought that it was _fair_ that I could…see things, know things, that you couldn’t, and… And it only seemed right for you to know everything you could about me before I—”

“ _Hawke!_ ” Fenris snapped, voice scraping low in warning. He could feel himself tensing as if preparing for a blow.

Hawke closed his eyes. “I’m doing this all wrong again,” he murmured, a lifetime’s worth of pain in his voice. “I’ve had years to find the right words, and I still don’t know how to tell you. I just.” He sighed and looked up. “I need you to remember: magic is treated differently in Tevinter—it’s crueler, because the void-taken _blood mages_ are cruel. But not— Not everything they believe is how things really are, and—”

Aidan Hawke made a torn noise, hands spread open between them as if offering Fenris _everything._ “Maker take me. There’s nothing I can give you but the truth of it. You’re my Voice,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you years ago, and it almost killed me. Please _don’t_ ,” he added, reaching out. It wasn’t until the chair clattered to the broken flagstones that Fenris realized he’d jerked to his feet. The cold pleasure-pain of his markings activating was almost a relief—blue-white light flickered between them, creating stark shadows on Hawke’s handsome face. “Please, _please_ just listen to what I have to say.”

 _Voice._ They had a word for that in Tevinter: unum vinctum. A blood slave, bound to its master. The simple folk whispered the word as if it were an incantation itself—as if just speaking it aloud marked you for the magisters. _They will creep into your home and mark you with their bloody fingers; you will never be free again._

_You will always be a slave._

“ _Fenris!_ ” Hawke cried, staggering back as Fenris suddenly lunged forward; cold light blazed between them and wood splintered as he smashed through the table, reaching for the mage with a guttural snarl. Fenris could see himself reflected back in Hawke’s startled-wide eyes, could see the blue flame dancing there as he _slammed_ the other man against crumbling stone, one hand at his throat, the other pulled back to thrust into his chest.

Seconds. Aidan Hawke had _seconds_ to live.

“I am not your property,” Fenris spat. He tightened his grip, sharp points of his gauntlets digging into the other man’s throat.

Hawke struggled to drag in a breath, scrabbling blindly to catch Fenris’s wrist…and then his hands fell away. He was pale and choking, but he wasn’t _fighting_ , palms pressed tight against the wall as if in reassurance. _I would never hurt you._ Fenris could practically _hear_ the words humming between them, as if Hawke, _Aidan_ , had spoken.

Aidan’s lashes flickered as he closed his eyes. His big frame began to relax into the hazy grey of unconsciousness.

…and Fenris cursed and stumbled back, both hands fisting at his sides. He stalked away, kicking aside the broken shards of the table, then jerkily turned and watched as Aidan (no, venhedis, _not_ Aidan— _Hawke_ ) slumped against the wall, coughing and dragging in desperate, rasping breaths. There were streaks of blood trailing from just below his jawline to the high collar of his black tunic; if Fenris looked down, he would see Hawke’s blood on the sharp tips of his gauntlets.

 _He_ had done that. Maker take him, was it some spell Hawke had cast over him that he all at once felt _shame_? Had he already been so thoroughly claimed?

“I should kill you where you stand, mage,” Fenris said, crossing his arms to hide the tell-tale tremble of his hands. The light flickered around him, growing fainter as the first rush of co-mingled horror and fury waned. “If you cannot tell me what I want to hear, I may yet.”

Hawke rubbed at his throat, lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks as he stared at the flagstones. His breathing slowly began to normalize, but he remained where he was. Then, slowly, he looked up through his lashes, grey eyes finding Fenris’s, and Fenris…shuddered, feeling the undeniable connection spark between them.

“What do you want me to say?” Hawke murmured. His voice was a low rasp now, an unconscious mimicry of Fenris’s own gravel-rough tone. “There’s a great deal I can tell you, but I didn’t know the words before, and I clearly haven’t managed to find them since.”

“You said you _lost_ me,” Fenris said. “Start _there_.”

Hawke dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing over his dark beard. “In Ferelden,” he began slowly, “mages are kept in Circles and are not permitted to find their Voices. Whatever the blood mages in Tevinter do, that isn’t how things are where I come from. A Voice isn’t a…a slave, or a victim, or a sacrifice or anything like that. A Voice is like—another half of you, and you of them. Mages can hear their Voices in the Fade, calling to them. When I was a boy, my father took me into the Fade to find _my_ Voice, and. Well.” 

He swiped his hand over his face again, a faint stain coloring his pale cheeks. “I found you. I could hear you in the Fade; sometimes, I could see you. And you—”

“I dreamed of you,” Fenris said. He remembered nothing of his life before the lyrium, before he was _Fenris_ , but somehow he _knew_ that he had seen this man in his dreams before. A boy then, gawky and earnest, limbs too long for his body. Curly black hair falling over his brow. 

Hawke nodded slowly. “I imagine you did. Ah. Your name wasn’t Fenris, then. It was Leto. You lived with your mother and sister somewhere warm, where orange trees grew along the high slopes overlooking a rocky cove.”

Fenris stiffened. “ _Sister_?” he demanded. He could feel the lyrium stirring inside of him, responding to his agitation, but he bit it back sharply.

“Her name was Varania. She was younger than you by a few years—I’m not sure how many—and had red hair. She seemed kind? I’m sorry, she wasn’t often in the dreams that I saw, but I can tell you everything I remember of her—of both of you. I wanted to tell you right away, but I was afraid that, well…” Hawke trailed off.

“That I would kill you without hesitation,” Fenris finished for him.

Hawke couldn’t seem to hide a wince. “Yes, that. I wanted to at least try to give you reason to trust me before I told you everything. I know we’re…not there yet. And perhaps you never will trust me. But I— Fenris. You have to understand that no matter how you feel about this, no matter what you choose, I am _yours_. Everything I am, everything I ever will be, is _yours_.”

And that… That gave him pause. An unum vinctum was a slave to the magister, a walking blood rite. The very idea that the magister could belong to his vinctum in return made no sense. And yet the thought of Hawke belonging to _him_ , of Aidan Hawke being _his_ , made something deep and dark and primal stir inside Fenris. It made his blood begin to boil.

He’d never had anything that was truly _his_ before.

“We met once,” Hawke was saying, as if somehow unaware of the way his words were rocking Fenris to the core, “in the Fade. I was fifteen and you were perhaps three or four years older. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the beginning of your lyrium ritual. You…saw me. We spoke. We, ah. Kissed.”

Hawke ducked his head at that, flush creeping across his pale cheeks. Fenris felt a responding blush darken his skin; he turned his head and coughed lightly into his fist.

“I wanted to know where I could find you, so I could track you down and help free you,” Hawke admitted. “But before you could tell me—before we could say much of anything to each other—you were overcome with, with pain. It was the ritual beginning. At first, all I could do was stand there and watch. It was— I can’t talk about how it was. I’m sorry. Everything from that point has become a white haze in my memory; Carver could tell you more than I. All I really remember was reaching for you, and then _pain_. The most— The _worst_ — It was like being flayed alive.”

Fenris flinched despite himself. At those words, he could almost feel an echo stirring inside of him, the stifled memory of that agony trying to surface. He hissed out a breath and began to pace, moving across the cold flagstones with a barely concealed shudder. _That_ was a memory he had no wish to rediscover.

But Hawke was not finished.

“I nearly died. I had no idea whether you had survived or not—even when I finally healed, I could never hear you in the Fade again. But I came away with… With scars of my own. I-I can show you, if you want. Or, if you’d rather, I could just… I could leave. I would leave, if you asked it of me. I promised you before that I would never force anything on you, and I’ll keep that oath no matter what it takes.”

He struggled not to let the shiver working its way up his spine show. There was a part of him that wanted to take Hawke up on his offer. This was so much, _too_ much. This was nothing he had ever wanted for himself. And yet…

…and yet, at the same time, he couldn’t imagine turning Hawke away. He couldn’t imagine an evening, _their_ evening, passing without the mage sitting across the table from him, sharing wine and laughing as he told stories. He couldn’t imagine not having what was proving to be a patient ear willing to listen as Fenris enumerated the many wrongs done to him. He couldn’t imagine waking and knowing he’d never see that awkward, earnest smile again.

And perhaps more easy to accept, Fenris knew that out of everyone in the world, Aidan Hawke was the most uniquely qualified to shield him from Danarius and his slave-catchers. There was no one else like him. It helped, to keep that one mercenary thought close. It helped Fenris re-orient himself in the swiftly shifting landscape he found himself in.

“Show me what you will,” Fenris said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He fought not to shift awkwardly from foot to foot; it took all his concentration to keep his expression impassive.

Hawke studied his face for a long minute, then slowly nodded. Taking a deep breath, he reached down to unfasten the tiny black buttons running up the length of a glove, fingers nimble.

Fenris watched him, fighting the urge to move closer. He’d noticed the way Hawke always remained covered from neck to toes—it would be impossible _not_ to notice—but he had never let himself ask. Even though he did not deign to hide his own scars, he understood that others might wish to shield themselves from prying eyes and uncomfortable questions.

Still. It would be fair to say he was…curious what Hawke looked like without so many layers.

A bit of pale skin appeared, the tender flesh of his wrist, and Hawke hesitated. His fingers, Fenris noted with surprise, were _trembling_. “Hawke,” Fenris began, though he had no idea what he planned to say.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said, before giving a breathless, shaking laugh. “I’m just trying to decide if I should hide behind something first. I— Maybe I should explain. Maybe it would be better if I—”

“ _Hawke_.”

“We’re _not_ bonded. We’re _not_ ,” he added quickly, lifting both hands. The black leather gaped around one wrist, offering tantalizing almost-glimpses of bare skin. “That wouldn’t be possible, not without physical contact and intent. But when we met in the Fade, _something_ happened. We shared…something. And when that evil bastard cut into you, the…wounds…were shared across whatever connection we had made. I think,” Hawke admitted, voice quieter now. His expression was so very clear in the warning flicker of Fenris’s lyrium. “That maybe the connection was what saved you. I _like_ to think that, anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s part of what saved me.”

Fenris fisted his hands again; it was all he could do not to reach over and _tear_ the concealing black cloth from Hawke’s body. “ _Show me_ , Hawke,” he said.

Hawke took a deep breath, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. He slipped a thumb into the loosened leather and began to peel it free. “But I want you to know that it doesn’t have to mean anything. They’re just scars; everyone has scars.”

 _Everyone has scars_ , he said, as if begging Fenris to believe him, even as he pulled his hand free and Fenris saw the swirling lines painted delicately across Hawke’s palms, the back of his hands, all the way up into the concealing dark of his sleeves.

The scars were an exact mirror to his own.

He let out a low hiss—then all at once jerked forward, stalking back across the room with a strangled growl. Hawke drew back, but he wasn’t fast enough; Fenris caught his wrist in a tight grip and twisted his arm around, palm-up. He shoved up the long sleeve, eyes scanning those deep scars, following the intimately familiar paths. He knew exactly how they would come together along his bicep, at the join of his shoulder. He could trace them with his eyes even under that heavy robe.

Fenris looked up, catching Hawke’s chin with his other hand. The sharp tips of his gauntlets dug in hard for a moment…then gentled as he turned Hawke’s face, lifting it to catch the light. The high collar hid his throat and the beard his chin, but now that Fenris knew to look, he could see the furrows tracing their way across his skin.

He brushed his thumb along one of the swirls, breath stuttering in his chest. Hawke…Aidan…caught his breath at the exact same moment, _shivering_. They stood together, mirrors of each other, breathing in tandem.

And Fenris’s eyes rose slowly to Aidan’s mouth.

The temptation was a slow, shocking coil of heat low in his belly. He swiped his thumb over the hidden marks again, sharp gauntlet rasping against the dark beard, making them both shiver. Aidan was swaying, and Fenris felt unexpectedly _powerful_ for a moment—as if he could somehow topple this man, this mage, with a word. With a _kiss_.

 _What would it be like to allow this_ , he thought, before harshly shoving that quiet whisper aside. He dropped his hands, stepping back and crossing his arms to make a shield between them. Aidan swayed toward him helplessly, and Fenris had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from swaying back, refusing the instincts that made him want to reach for the other man again. He would not allow it.

“I see,” he said. His voice was gruff as he turned away. “It is…a great deal to take in.”

“I hope you know—or you will know, if you don’t yet—that you can trust me,” Aidan murmured. With his back to the other man, it was all too easy to picture him as that knock-kneed boy that seemed to flicker like a ghost along the edges of his memory. “You have all the say here. All the power. If you want me to go, I’ll go. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. I’ll help keep you free of Danarius to my dying breath. I’ll _never_ take advantage of… Of this.”

Of us.

“I will think on it,” Fenris said. “For now, you will leave.”

There was a breath of silence, then a quiet sigh. Footfalls against broken flagstones. “I’m going to Darktown tomorrow,” Aidan said. “Varric believes he may have a solid lead on a Grey Warden in the city. If you wish it, you could…”

“No,” he said, not letting himself turn around to look. If he did, Maker only knew what foolishness would come tumbling out of his mouth. “I will not.”

“All right. I won’t come back until you tell me I should. You know where I live, and how… How to reach me. If you need me, if you need _anything_ , all you have to do is let me know. Or if you’re not comfortable with that, let Varric know. He can get word to me.”

Fenris glowered down at the stone. Shards of wood from the table were scattered around his bare feet, jagged and ugly. “That will not be necessary,” he said. “You will come here at your usual time, after your business in Darktown is completed, and tell me more. This changes—” _everything_ “—nothing.”

The noise Aidan made, muffled as if he’d clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle it, was low and _torn_ and so painful it took everything Fenris had not to turn to him at once. He had to dig his fingers into his palms until they bled. He glared down at the broken shards until his vision blurred. He’d never been so aware of his own body before—of the endless gulfs of space between him and another.

“Okay,” Aidan finally managed, word breaking midway through. And then came the hollow ringing of footsteps hurrying away, across the main landing, down the steps, through the great hall…and out of the mansion. It wasn’t until Fenris heard the distant sound of the main door closing that he let himself relax, shoulders rounding forward, knees very nearly giving out.

He gave a choked, bitter laugh, allowing himself to drop into an unsteady crouch. His head was whirling. Within the span of half an hour, his entire world had been turned upside down. He was the unum vinctum of Aidan Hawke.

…no. No, he was the _Voice_ of Aidan Hawke. And against every expectation, Aidan Hawke was, supposedly…his.

It would take a very long time for Fenris to know how he felt about _that._


	20. Anders

_Get up, Anders,_ he told himself, focusing inward, looking for that spark that would drag him to his feet. Darktown was a living, breathing creature of ragged flesh and bone coiled around him. Each gust of sea air carried the stench of the tunnels that funneled it through to the clinic; the clang of men hollowing out yet another twisting warren far below was a steady heartbeat. Laying on his cot, staring up at the crumbling ceiling, he felt as if he were trapped within its ribcage—as if the city had swallowed him whole.

Maker, what an image that made.

 _Come on_ , he thought, long-fingered hands gripping the edges of his cot until the corrugated metal dug into flesh. _You’re not giving up today. Not when there’s so much work to do._

There were the sick and needy to heal. There were always the sick and needy. But there were mages, too, and Karl, and the work he’d sworn his life to. “You made a vow,” he said, and that was enough, at least, to spur _Justice_ into action. Anders felt his spirit passenger flicker and twist within his chest; he let that small awareness drag him up from threadbare blankets and to his feet. Dingy grey robes settled about him, and his lips twisted into a smile as he dragged his fingers through his hair.

“Step one, get out of bed: accomplished,” Anders said, pulling the ends into a dirty ponytail. Maker, when was the last time he’d bathed? “Today is already going _so_ well.”

There was just enough of dawn pushing through the clinic’s high windows to make grey shapes out of the dim. Anders shuffled through his morning routine, rubbing at his stubbled jaw before deciding he could go another day without shaving. He picked at a meal of stale bread and ale, sat hunched over his tiny table and willing himself to eat. Bite by bite, he choked it down, feeling each morsel settle like lead in his stomach.

Finally, a quarter through the loaf, he couldn’t take any more. Anders wrapped the remainder in cheesecloth and tucked it back on a high shelf, out of reach—in theory, at least—of the rats. He’d try to eat more later, he reasoned. There was still a day or two left before even the rats started turning up their noses.

The sun was higher now, striations of light easing across the hard-packed earth floor. Anders paused in the open clinic doorway, staring out across Darktown. There were a few bundles of rags draped haphazardly across the nearby steps. Anders watched as the nearest bundle twitched, then settled again—that and the wheezing breath were the only signs that the old beggar woman was still alive.

He gestured toward the lantern hanging over the clinic doors, letting the spark dance from his fingers to catch on the wick before moving toward the steps. Rotting wood creaked under his weight as Anders crouched.

“Come on inside,” he murmured, a hand on the frail old back. He could feel the heat of her fever through the filthy grey rags clinging to her too-small body; the arc of her shoulderblades was as sharp and delicate as a bird’s. “I’ll give you something that’ll help with the pain.”

She twisted to blink up at him. Blue eyes were glassy with age and illness. “I don’t have no way to pay,” the old woman muttered, even as she let Anders help her to her feet. She weighed no more than a child, skin hanging loose about her jowls and forearms from what had to have been a rapid weight loss. It was all Anders could do to tamp down the sudden _fury_ he felt on her behalf—on the behalf of _all_ the refugees slowly rising from their restless sleep like the walking dead. How could the viscount ignore so many disenfranchised and still call himself just? How could the Chantry turn a blind eye to the dying and still call itself holy?

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, hating the world that had failed them all, mage and beggar alike. They took careful, shuffling steps into the infirmary. “I’ll help you all the same.”

“But I have nothing,” she protested again, not seeming to understand. The face that turned toward him was piteous. “Nothing at all.”

Anders tried to smile. “Well,” he said, helping the old woman into a seat, “if all you have is nothing, there sure is a lot to go around. Isn’t that how the old saying goes?”

She squinted up at him, trembling fingers patting his cheek as she visibly tried to puzzle through his words. “But,” the old woman quavered, “I have nothing.”

“…right,” Anders said, not dropping the smile.

Marta, one of his regular volunteers, slipped in just in time to save him the challenge of explaining the joke. “I’ve got this, if you’d like to start sorting through those what need real help,” she said. “Bottle of elfroot ought to fix this one right up, aye?”

She tipped her chin to smile at him, brown eyes warm and friendly and unspeakably sweet.

Bethany had had eyes like that.

“Right,” Anders said, looking away like the coward he was. He never could manage to hold her gaze for more than a beat at a time. “I’ll just—”

But then he paused, remembering the desperate sparsity of their medicine cabinet. Winced. “Marta,” he murmured, leaning in so only she could hear. “A quarter bottle, then wait an hour to see if the fever breaks.”

She nodded once, sharply, and Anders moved to the growing crowd of needy. He hated being so miserly with the potions, but supplies were tight, and money was tighter—if he didn’t stretch what he had, they’d soon run out. And he didn’t want to imagine what would happen then.

Life was hard enough without borrowing trouble that would find him in its own time.

There was a rhythm to healing, once he got into the groove. Hours passed in an ever-moving stream, swirling liquid around his knees as Anders closed his eyes and called on blue fire. It felt _good_ even when it hurt; maybe it felt good especially when it hurt—he and Justice hadn’t quite figured out the boundaries of that yet.

He was never more aware of his spirit passenger than when he was scraping the bottom of his ability, digging deep trenches in himself and feeling them burst with renewed energy. Anders couldn’t imagine being able to give this much before. The day had swung steadily toward evening, the moon had risen, and he’d given everything he had to give to the hoard of sick and needy who tramped into his clinic in a steady stream all day.

And yet when the man carried the young boy through the open doors, shocked-white face spattered with blood, eyes wild, Anders felt the surge of Justice deep in his gut and the magic was there waiting for him when he reached for it.

He thrust his staff against the thick post and closed his eyes, digging deep as he began to weave a healing spell. He was only vaguely aware of the man shouting, and one of his volunteers hovering near to calm him. The whole world seemed to fall away under a crushing wave of magic. It was straining against his skin, nearly bursting through like an overripe fruit. He had to grit down against a wild surge of it, wrestling for control as it spilled too sloppy and bright and beautiful from his fingertips.

Each breath was a battle. 

Each moment a struggle to stay in control of his own skin.

But he would not give way. And he would not fail. Not tonight. “Not tonight,” Anders echoed, feeling the pulse of Justice straining at the cage of his body, eager to take over, and it took everything he had to keep the cracks from appearing in his skin, to keep the spirit _down_ and focused on knitting cracked bones and burst blood vessels, filling the fragile bellows of the young boy’s lungs as

—the boy jerked and dragged in a startled breath, eyes flying open—

he _healed_. He healed the way he hadn’t been given the chance to heal _her_. And wasn’t that, ultimately, the point?

“You’re all right,” Anders murmured, letting the magic slip from him like water between his fingers. He sagged, all at once weary, barely aware of the boy’s father helping him to his feet. He had to close his eyes against the dizziness and fierce pride, one hand lifting to press fingers against his temple. He’d been so tired and weak, he’d very nearly lost control to Justice. He couldn’t let that happen again. But it was worth it to see a young boy pulled back from the edge of death. “You’re all right.” He wished he knew whether he meant the boy…or himself.

And then he heard the clank of armor, and it no longer mattered.

Anders let out a soft breath, eyes squeezing shut. He’d wondered when the Templars would catch wind of the apostate daring to lend aid to the desperate; it was so like them to wait until he was nearly staggering from exhaustion to try to bring him in.

To make him _Tranquil._

Justice surged inside him at the thought and Anders reached for his staff even as he whirled around, one hand lifting in a defensive gesture. He’d been fighting ever since he’d escaped from the Circle; as much of a struggle as it was some days, he would _keep_ fighting, would fight until his very last breath. He would make his short time here count.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation,” he snarled, feeling the spell unfolding inside his chest like a living flame. “Why do you—”

And then his eyes met startled grey-blue, as wide open as the summer sea, and something inside him

Just

_Shattered._

“ _Oh_ ,” Anders said, dropping out of his defensive posture with a jerk. His body felt shocked-still, electrified; he could sense the current between them immediately, like a lightning chain dancing across the cracked and dirty floor. Anders let the butt of his staff hit the ground, staring, as the stranger watched him with an unnerving stillness.

His eyes; it was impossible to look away from his eyes. They were framed in sweeping black lashes in a face that could never be called anything but handsome, and dear Maker, what the void was _wrong with him?_ Anders shuddered, shoulders hitching, and the attraction was so sudden and so visceral and so _wrong_ that he nearly let Justice take control out of reflex.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Who the _void_ are you?” Anders demanded. His voice was husky, scraped raw.

The grey-eyed man visibly startled at the question. “I could ask you the same,” he said. The familiar flat Ferelden vowels shouldn’t have been a comfort. He had curly black hair and a close-cropped beard that covered his jaw and chin. The black of his tunic rose all the way up to his throat; there was not an inch of extra skin visible. Anders wasn’t disappointed by that.

He wasn’t, he _wasn’t_.

Anders stared at the man and the man stared back. His stomach was roiling and his heart was skipping double-time in his chest. He thought, if the stranger took a single step closer, it might just explode. And yet underlying the sudden fight-or-flight, he felt an undeniable tug toward the stranger—a sense that whatever else was true, whatever else he might believe, he wanted to be by his side. He wanted…something. Some unknowable gesture or word or overture that would let him know he was welcome. He felt a sense of safety, and that was more fucked up than anything he could have ever imagined, even _after_ taking on the Warden taint, facing the broodmother in the cavernous Deep Roads, and accepting Justice into his body.

There was no _safety_ ; there was no _home_. Anders knew that better than anyone.

And yet…

_Yet._

The only time he’d ever felt anything similar had been in the Fade, with Bethany. It had been sweeter, then, a humming chord that connected their bodies and promised something stronger and even better still the first time he was actually able to sink his fingers into her curling dark hair (like the stranger’s, only chestnut instead of raven) and tug her close and hear her voice (flat Ferelden vowels, a lilt that was all her own) and bring their mouths together and be complete.

This was a discordant echo of that fledgling bond, but it was close enough that his knees were trembling in response.

“Aidan,” the red-headed woman shadowed by the doorway murmured, sword halfway out of its sheath, and Anders actually swayed back at the sound, stumbling—barely catching himself against the wide post in time. His palms skidded across pitted wood and his staff clattered too-loud to the ground, but it was the man’s— _Aidan’s_ —startled noise that echoed in his head. His breath came in shallow, painful lurches.

“ _Aidan_ ,” Anders said, shaken to the core. He knew, now. He understood. “Aidan Hawke.”

Aidan let out a heavy breath, and there were tears on his lashes. He gave a minute nod of his head. “Anders,” he said; his voice was painful and beautiful, because it reminded Anders of _her_. “Maker, I never would have—” Then, hesitantly, “She spoke of you often.”

His legs gave out. Anders slid down the post with a torn cry, collapsing bonelessly to the cold floor. The world was swimming, veiled through the tears he was struggling to hold back, but he didn’t need to see in order to feel Aidan moving to crouch by him—warm, oh Maker, so warm. Anders turned his face away with a shaken laugh, and he could sense Aidan hesitating before reaching out to touch his shoulder. The connection was instantaneous, sizzling and aching and too harsh, yet… _necessary_ , too. It was a shallow, sharp-edged echo of what he might have felt with his Voice, but, but, _Maker_ , he’d never thought to feel anything again, he’d never—

“Anders,” Aidan said, grip tightening. His brows were drawn into a worried frown, and the other two—the red-headed woman and a black-haired boy—hovered protectively over his shoulder.

As if Anders could ever bring himself to hurt Bethany’s flesh and blood.

“What the void is going on, Aidan?” the boy demanded, but the woman immediately hissed, “ _Hush_ ,” as if she could understand even a quarter of how this felt. 

Anders flicked his gaze up to the two of them, then away, finding Aidan again. Maker, he could see so much of her there. It was all he could do not to reach up and cup the familiar-yet-not shape of that jaw. Instead, he balled his hands into fists.

Aidan cocked his head, hand sliding up to cup the back of Anders’ neck in a soothing gesture that was anything but. Anders shook helplessly, entire body shocked alive for the first time in over a year, but Aidan simply looked over his shoulder as if it were a simple thing to break their line of sight and said, “Carver, this is _Anders_. Bethany’s Anders.”

“He looks like a stiff wind would knock him over,” Carver—the twin? So strange that _he_ looked almost nothing like her—said. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “We’re supposed to trust _him_ to get us into the Deep Roads?”

“I think there are more important matters at hand now,” the woman chided in a gentle voice underlain with steel. She moved to stand at Aidan’s shoulder, green eyes scanning Anders as if searching for sign of injury. “Are you all right, serrah?”

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Aidan added.

Anders gave a strangled laugh and tipped his face away—but he could see Aidan’s worried and confused frown out of the corner of his eyes, and that was all the confirmation he needed. No, of course, this was _his life_ —it had to be as absolutely void-taken complicated as possible. “You don’t feel it,” he said.

Aidan hesitated a beat. Anders closed his eyes. “I feel something,” Aidan said slowly. His grip tightened, soothing despite the firestorm raging within Anders’ chest. Andraste take him. “An echo, maybe. I…take it that’s not what you’re experiencing?” he added at Anders’ bitter noise.

“I don’t know _what_ I’m experiencing. It only figures I’m doing it alone.”

And that, he realized, was the worst of it. For a moment—heart-rending, breathless, shocking in its intensity—he’d actually hoped that the Maker had taken pity and sent him…not a replacement for Bethany. _That_ could never be possible. But something to ease the pain of her loss. Someone to make it bearable, the way not even giving himself over body and soul to his cause had managed.

There was something vital broken inside of him; for a fleeing moment, Anders had almost thought there was hope of being something closer to whole.

Of course he had been wrong.

“You’re my sister’s Voice,” Aidan was saying, and something about his tone was undeniable. Anders could no more tune him out than he could quiet the riot of his own thoughts. He turned his head to look at him, struck again—like a blow to the chest—by the shades of Bethany he saw there. The connection was humming between them, off-key but irresistible. _How_ was it Aidan didn’t feel this too? “You’ll never be alone unless you want to be.”

“Very touching,” Carver snapped, but the woman cuffed him upside the head before Aidan could so much as look away; the scowl on the boy’s face was so exaggerated that it nearly startled a laugh out of him. Maker, so many of Bethany’s stories were beginning to make sense now.

Aidan offered him a crooked grin, sweet and charming and just…bloody perfect. Anders felt himself beginning to relax into it, smiling back a little, bit by bit. When Aidan dropped his hand away, it took everything he had not to grab for it. “Welcome to the family, Anders,” he said dryly, even as Carver muttered something decidedly vulgar. “You’re probably going to regret ever meeting us, but it’s far too late now.”

“Never,” Anders promised, giving in to almost unbearable temptation and reaching out. He covered Aidan’s hand with his own, and the way Aidan went very still wasn’t…exactly…promising, but the connection felt so _right_ that he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. “That’s never going to happen.”


	21. Leandra

It hurt to look at her old home the way it hurt to stare into the sun. There were ghosts there—grey specters of a little girl dreaming of prince charming, of a brother who hadn’t yet given himself over to vice and rot, of parents who loved a little too well and understood nothing. If she stood in its vine-covered shadows and strained, Leandra swore she could hear muffled shouts, slamming doors echoing in that secret place between memory and imagination:

_I love him! You can’t keep him from me!_

And, whispered through the cracks in the window: _Run away with me, my Leandra._

Malcolm. Even here, even in the broken shadow of the Amell estate, he haunted her footsteps. If she let it, the familiar grief could come rising up again, heady and dark and strangely addictive. There was a comfort to the endless pain of loss because it stole so much of _time_. Time she would otherwise spend trapped in the cruelest kind of poverty, in the shade of the life she’d once known, straddling both worlds and belonging to neither—empty and Voiceless and little more than a ghost herself, some days, even now.

Women in fine dresses and jewels gave her an insultingly wide berth as they passed on the street. In another lifetime, they had worn pigtails and called her _friend._

How much easier would it be if she could just shut out hope and family and expectation and just wallow in the broken parts of herself that would never, could never heal?

 _No_ , she thought, shivering and wrapping her arms around her middle. She tipped her chin toward the setting sun, letting the warm light brush her face, paint her lids. _No, that is behind me now._

_I’m sorry, my love, but the children need me to be stronger than that._

“Why Leandra Amell,” a voice drawled, and Leandra turned. Toranne Saal stood several steps away, painted brows arched in polite surprise. Leandra had seen her old school friend around the city before, of course—they Hawkes had been in Kirkwall over a year, now, and the city was not so large as all that—but this was the first time the other woman had deigned to address her.

“Toranne,” Leandra said, tightening her threadbare shawl around her middle.

The woman looked her over, gaze stuttering on the grey hair, the lines about her face. Her own plump, still-pretty face twisted into a pitying smile, and it took all Leandra had not to reach out and swipe it from her face. She _refused_ to be an object of scorn. “I barely recognized you. Maker bless my eyes, but you’ve changed so much.”

Toranne reached up to touch one of her own still-dark curls (though whether that was nature or dye, Leandra couldn’t say), fingertips fluttering there before dropping to her smooth neck. Leandra had to fight the impulse to close the shawl tighter around her own neck and bosom, which were freckled and lined with a fine map of wrinkles.

 _I would be beautiful still if I had never left the comforts of a wealthy life,_ a small voice whispered in Leandra’s ear, chased immediately by: _Malcolm always thought me beautiful, no matter what I looked like._

“What _are_ you doing here?” Toranne was saying. “Have you reclaimed the old estate?” She ticked her gaze up to the filthy windows, the riot of vines covering cracked brick. “We would dearly love to see the Amells return. It was always a pity, how far your family fell. Have you really been living in a hovel in _Lowtown_?”

Her spine straightened. “My case is being heard before the Viscount,” Leandra said stiffly. “And where I am living is hardly anyone’s concern.”

Toranne tsked. “There’s no need to be defensive, Leandra—though Andraste knows you always were quick to take offense. I was only—”

“I know exactly what you were doing,” Leandra interrupted. “And it doesn’t suit you now any more now than it did when we were girls. I have never been your competition, Toranne.”

The flush that crept up the other woman’s face was dark, and even though she tried to smile, Toranne’s mouth seemed determined to pull tight like the draws of a purse. “I should think not, _considering_ ,” she tried to sneer, but Leandra simply stared her down, unruffled, unaffected. Toranne had always ( _always_ ) been the sort to blink first in a battle of wills. In that way, she was a good deal like most of the people Leandra had thought of as friends growing up, and nothing at all like the sturdy Ferelden peasants she’d come to embrace as her true equals over the years.

Money, it had turned out, didn’t make people _better_ —it merely made them more _comfortable_.

“Considering?” Leandra asked.

“Well!” She shuffled, big skirts swinging around her with a sound like rustling paper. Her cheeks were nearly as red as the garnet at her neck; clearly this wasn’t the _lady of the manor condescends_ triumph she had been hoping for. “Rumor had it you ran away with a— With—”

Leandra arched a brow, lips quirking. “With an apostate?”

Toranne pulled out a fan and snapped it open, her sausage curls swaying at the frantic, jerking motion. Leandra had a flash of sense-memory at the movement: plump, giggling girls standing in a semi-circle, whispering vicious half-truths and plotting out futures where someday _they_ would be the lady of so-and-so or the princess of such-and-such.

And she—dark-haired, grey-eyed, a proud _Amell_ with nothing but the whole world laying cracked open at her slippered feet—had been one of the loudest, one of the most misguided. Kind to the elven servants only as an afterthought, gliding through the city completely blind to the Gallows hanging pale and sinister on the horizon, so inwardly focused that she never even thought to question who she was and what she was _owed._

If she had ever passed through Hightown and saw an old woman, gray of hair and dressed in rags beneath the shadow of her estate, she would have stood in some dark corner and tittered with her friend Toranne like a flock of mockingbirds.

She could have so easily never known there was any other way.

“You know,” Leandra said with a wry sort of smile. “Now that I think on it, I’ll take your lack of recognition as a compliment; good day, serrah.” She gave a slight incline of her head, an acknowledgement between equals, and moved away from the gaping Toranne and the shadow of the Amell estate and everything— _everything_ —the two represented.

She didn’t have time to wallow in memory or combat melancholy or spar with old ‘friends’ looking for confirmation of their own life choices at her expense. She was here on a mission.

Leandra’s soft-soled heels whispered across the flagstones as she turned deeper into Hightown; she ignored the finely dressed women who pulled back as she passed and gave the cutpurses a steady look until they awkwardly turned away. One of Aidan’s friends she barely knew—a dark-skinned woman with a great deal of gold jewelry and a shocking lack of clothing—glanced up from the corner she was loitering in and tossed off a jaunty salute. Leandra cocked her head in curiosity, but the woman just spun one of her daggers in her hand and jabbed with it toward an empty-looking estate. Its windows were deep black eyes, and dust and dried leaves cluttered the stoop. A jagged gash ran down the front door in a worrying scar.

Oh. Oh dear.

She glanced back toward Aidan’s friend, but the woman had disappeared seemingly between one breath and the next. Leandra wondered if Aidan was having her followed, or whether the guard had been intended for his Leto.

If the former, she was going to have _words_ with him. If the latter, well… She of all people could understand the impulse.

She slowly moved toward the forbidding-looking doorway, realizing as she drew closer that there were crude scars around the keyhole, and splintered wood scattered across the stoop. When she rapped her knuckles against the frame, the door pushed inward, unlatched. It _creaked_ , like the beginning of one of Malcolm’s ghost stories.

 _Maybe this is not a good idea,_ Leandra thought, but as the door pushed open and she saw the horror of dust and cobwebs and _filth_ Leto was living in, that worry was immediately subsumed by a motherly, _Dear Maker, how is he keeping himself warm in this drafty old place?_

“Hello?” she called, pushing into the main entranceway. She nudged the door shut with one hip, glancing around with wary curiosity. There were shattered plates strewn across the floor and broken tile half-hanging from the ceiling. Dust covering everything in a heavy grey pall. As she moved further into the house, she noticed the noxious green stain on one wall—presumably from a gas trap.

Or demons. Hadn’t Aidan mentioned something about fighting demons here?

“Hello?” Leandra called again, refusing to let her voice quaver. She stepped into the next room and startled, nearly shrieking in alarm when she tread upon an outflung _hand_. Its owner was sprawled across the broken tile, long dead. Some sort of preservation spell kept his features waxy and decay from setting in, but it was obvious from the dust settling over his staring eyes and gaping mouth that he’d been there some time.

 _This_ was where Aidan’s Voice had chosen to live? _This_ was where Aidan himself came so often?

“This is hardly healthy,” Leandra murmured in dismay, lifting her skirts and daintily stepping around the corpse. There were others strewn about the main hall, flung here and there like dolls abandoned by a temperamental child. One even still had a sword jutting from his chest, blood turned bracken about the rusting blade.

Leandra let out a low noise at the sight. There was something…immeasurably sad about the dead men denied even the most basic human dignity. She couldn’t help but wonder whether they had deserved such treatment—whether anyone, no matter their sins, deserved such treatment.

“Oh, Maker,” she breathed, crouching by the dead man and fearlessly reaching out to close his eyes. She could give him that, at least. “Does your mother know what’s become of you?”

“Why are you here, woman?” a husky voice demanded.

Leandra twisted to look up the sweeping staircase. An elf stood at the top, giant great sword balanced easily in both hands. He was caught by the rising moonlight that shifted through a massive hole in the ceiling, silver hair gleaming nearly as bright as the all too familiar markings threading across olive-toned skin. The spikes of his dark armor easily matched the belligerent jut of his jaw.

He was just as beautiful as Aidan had always said, and in that moment, Leandra determined to love him just as fiercely as she had ever loved the children of her own body. This was her son’s Voice, and he had been through hell; it was all she could do not to rush up and bundle him into her arms like the old fool she was.

“I am here to see you, Leto,” she said simply, rising. Leandra wiped her fingers clean on the edge of her shawl, frowning at herself for forgetting already. “I’m sorry, Aidan did tell me you prefer to be called Fenris now. I’ll do my best to remember, but I have to tell you—I’ve called you by your given name since Aidan was, oh, thirteen? It’ll be a hard habit to break.”

The great sword slowly lowered. Leto— _Fenris_ —was scowling, but there was a hint of awkward confusion in the scowl, as if he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to react, so he settled for what came naturally.

“I’m Aidan’s mother,” Leandra said, as if that hadn’t been clear enough. “I’ve come to invite you to dinner.”


	22. Carver

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to take care of that for you, Hawke?” Merrill asked, her brows drawn together in sweet dismay. They were walking—dragging, really—through Lowtown after a series of nasty encounters on the Wounded Coast. Carver, Merrill, and the now-absent Aveline had managed to do all right by themselves, but Aidan…

Carver surreptitiously glanced at his brother, struggling a pace or two behind. Aidan had been flanked by three of the slavers and had borne the brunt of the attack as if it were his due, the giant git. Carver was sure it was only his _own_ quick thinking that had kept his brother’s stupid head on his stupid shoulders.

And now? Now Aidan was streaked from head to foot in drying blood, at least a good half of it his own, limping a few paces behind no matter how slow Carver and Merrill shuffled their steps. He had the last few bottles of elfroot in his system and _still_ winced when he thought no one was looking. They’d had their share of bumps and bruises over the last year-plus, but today the danger they constantly threw themselves into felt…uncomfortably real. That last blow had been too close for comfort. _Maker_.

“Maybe you should listen,” Carver said, fighting to keep the creeping worry out of his voice. They had another cache of supplies at the house, but nothing worked quite so well as a good healing spell.

Aidan hunched his shoulders moodily. “Maybe you should stop being a tit,” he muttered.

“ _I’m_ the tit? After that stunt you pulled? You’re not a _tank_ , you _idiot_.”

But Merrill cut in before Carver could give a good vent to his flaring indignation. “Oh, yes, _please_ Hawke, let me try to heal you. I know I’m not as good at those sorts of spells as you or Anders,” which was something of an understatement, though Carver would die before he said as much, “but I’m _sure_ I won’t make it worse this time.”

Aidan winced as a loose cobble teetered at his next step, throwing off his balance and forcing him to overcorrect too quickly. It’d only serve him right if he went sprawling on his ass in the filthy street. “That’s kind of you, Merrill, but there’s plenty of elfroot back at Uncle Gamlen’s, and I—”

Merrill’s lower lip wobbled and Andraste take him but her giant, anxious, limpid eyes were _torture_ to see.

“Oh, just let her heal you, you big baby!” Carver snapped, fighting a blush.

“I will be careful!” Merrill added. She lifted a hand, flare of energy surrounding her fingers—not a pure blue like Anders’, but deeper, _greener_ at the edges, whispering of dark forgotten places and secrets and creeping things. It reflected off her delicate face and cast around them in a flickering glow…drawing curious and alarmed glances from every refugee and hard-on-his-luck dock worker.

“But not on a public street!” Carver hissed, quickly moving to try to shield Merrill from view. He lifted his hand to yank hers down, the way he would if she had been his brother or his sister’s stupid justice-obsessed Voice—and then hesitated, pained. He couldn’t just manhandle _Merrill_ , no matter how…ah… _incautious_ she was being. He wavered, hand frozen midair, awkwardly shifting between warring impulses.

A few steps away, Aidan barely hid a snort in a cough, as if he could read Carver’s mind.

“I’m sorry?” Merrill said— _earnestly_ , damn her, blinking between the two of them. Carver was frozen in place, torn between conflicting emotions, desires. Bloody _yearnings_ , like he was a heroine in one of Varric’s stupid stories.

Aidan cleared his throat, then leaned around Carver and lightly bumped his knuckles against her still-glowing fist. “Might want to put that away before anyone starts screaming for the Templars,” he murmured.

“Oh?” Merrill glanced around, brows knit. There was a very clear open space surrounding them, where the usual crush of cutpurses, refugees, and Lowtown scum had begun to give them a wide berth. “Oh! Oh, of course, you’re right.” She squeezed her fist and the light blinked out; Carver had never been particularly sensitive to magic despite a lifetime being surrounded by it, but he could almost swear he felt the low hum of it dying away, as if _her_ ability was a living thing. There was a part of him that wished that phantom awareness was real—that he _wasn’t_ just imagining things—and that it meant he was the little elf’s Voice. But no, that was impossible. She would have told him by now.

She _would_ have told him by now, right?

 _Maybe it’s the blood magic you’re feeling_ , a darker part of him murmured, but Carver locked that thought away before _blood magic_ could melt into _she deals with demons_ and he’d have to face… Well, _everything_. It was so much better to focus on the big green eyes and sweet smiles and sly humor threading through genuine innocence; it was so much easier not to let the truth ruin things.

“Right,” Carver snapped, pushing a little too roughly between Merrill and his brother. His skin was crawling and he didn’t like the wary gazes that were being cast their way. They needed to get Aidan off the street and safely home as soon as possible. “If we’re done standing about like a bunch of blighted idiots, let’s get on with things.”

He marched on, shoulders hunching forward at Merrill’s soft, “Oh! Is he cross with me again? I always make your little brother so cross, Hawke.”

 _Little brother_. Maker, that stung.

“He’s not mad at you, Merrill,” Aidan soothed, and Carver could picture it _so well_ : the hand Aidan placed on Merrill’s shoulder, the way his brows creased together in that earnest-and-kind expression that seemed to come to him so bloody easy, the way he’d tip against her and make her worry fracture and blow away on a light giggle.

Aidan was _so very good_ at _being_ good, and heroic, and _loved_ by every piece of gutter scum their paths crossed. Was it any wonder, Carver darkly mused, that Aidan was now and forever the true Hawke of Kirkwall while he was just… What?

_That other one. Hawke’s little brother._

He hurried his step, taking the last turn that would bring them to the long alleyway and the filthy Lowtown courtyard where the Hawkes lived. He unbuckled his sword even as he took the stairs up to Gamlen’s door two at a time, trying not to hear Merrill urge Aidan to drink as much elfroot as he could stomach and lie down immediately.

“The alienage is only a little bit of space away, if you need me,” she said. Carver busied himself checking his pouches and buckles and knives, hesitating at the door. He was too restless and sour inside his own skin to stay and witness the girl he… _whatever_ …fluttering so sweetly over Aidan. But he also couldn’t leave his brother hurt and alone out on the street. He couldn’t abandon him like that.

So he stayed, pretending to be absorbed in checking his supplies, and did his best not to overhear.

“I’ll be _fine_ , Merrill. I promise. Now go on and get some rest yourself,” Aidan urged. Out of the corner of his eyes, Carver saw him catch her by the back of the neck and reel her in long enough to plant a smacking kiss on her forehead. Merrill giggled and swatted at Aidan, and in the blurring of sudden, infuriating tears he would never shed…she could have been Bethany.

“Dareth shiral, Hawke,” Merrill said. Then, taking a step back, she called up to Carver, “And oh, you! Of course. You as well. Dareth shiral, Carver.”

He turned his face away, waving her off with one gauntleted hand. He’d rather put out his own eyes than let Merrill catch him getting upset over, Maker’s balls, absolutely nothing.

She was so light on her feet, he didn’t hear her slip away. He _did_ hear Aidan, making his way slow and creaky as an old man up the steps, and that was all the cue he needed to reach for the latch. He wanted a basin of water, and a pint of ale, and some food in his stomach. Some privacy with his thoughts would be a much-needed balm, though Maker knew _that_ was asking for a lot in the little hovel they shared. “Get yourself some elfroot and I’ll have Mother heat water to wash away that filth,” Carver said, throwing the latch—but Aidan caught his wrist before he could push open the door.

“Aidan,” Carver began, a warning note in his voice.

But Aidan’s grip just tightened. “ _Carver_. That was unkind of you. You know how Merrill can be.”

The injustice of that—of Aidan telling him to be _gentle_ with Merrill, as if Carver hadn’t known her just as long and arguably just as well; as if he hadn’t been _paying attention_ —was a tight fist in his chest. He turned, throwing off Aidan’s grip with a snarl. He nearly _shoved_ him—would have, if he didn’t remember Aidan’s injuries at the last moment. “I _know_ , all right? So you can just get down from your high horse. _I know_.”

The surprise on Aidan’s face rapidly transmutated into exasperated annoyance. “All right then. If you _know_ , then you must be antagonizing her on purpose,” he said. “Scratch that. You’ve been antagonizing everyone, more than usual, the last few weeks. What’s wrong with you?”

Carver tried to shrug the question away, glowering, but Aidan just ducked his head to meet his eyes, catching them; stilling him as Aidan shifted from anger back to concern over whatever he read in Carver’s eyes. It was so bloody unfair how Aidan could make everything inside him go so quiet with just a worried look. 

“Carver,” Aidan said again, voice pitched low. “What’s wrong?”

As if he could do anything to fix it. “I’m not Merrill’s Voice,” Carver snapped, when what he meant was: _you’ve always been special. Bethany was special. Father and Mother were special for each other. How do you think it feels being the only ordinary one?_

Aidan blinked. “No,” he said slowly, not able to read between the words. “She lost her Voice back just before the Blight began. It has something to do with that mirror she keeps in her room, but… Is that what this all has been about? Merrill?” Aidan reached out to squeeze Carver’s shoulder, _not getting it_ no matter how kind he was trying to be. “Carver, even though you may not be her Voice, you should try. Her situation is…different, and—”

“Oh lay off,” he snarled, knocking Aidan’s hand away. “I shouldn’t have expected you to get it anyway.”

“Get _what_?” Aidan sounded truly exasperated and confused, _concerned_. “Carver, talk to me.”

Carver turned and shoved open the door, shoulders instinctively hunching. He’d lived with this feeling all his life—being the odd one out, not belonging, not being _enough_ —so why did it feel like it was all coming to a head now? Why did it feel like he was finally coming out of his skin _now_?

_I always make your little brother so cross, Hawke._

“Just lay off me, _Hawke_ ,” Carver snapped, slamming into the main room with enough strength to send Trouble barking out of sleep. A few steps in, Gamlen straightened and cursed, and Mother jolted to her feet. Standing next to her chair, suddenly casting off striations of blue-white light was—

Carver stumbled to a stop. _Fuck_. “Fenris,” he said, echoed immediately by his brother’s low, surprised, “ _Fenris_.” Carver glanced over his shoulder to spot Aidan standing in the open doorway, streaked with blood, swaying in one place…all his brotherly concern about Carver completely forgotten as he stared at Fenris with faintly parted lips.

_Of bloody course._

“Great,” Carver said, yanking off his gauntlets and storming into the next room. “Just bloody great.”

No one bothered to follow him. Instead, he listened sourly through the open door as he shucked off his armor, dropping each piece with a satisfying _bang_ as his own punctuation to their flurry of concern over Aidan.

“You are hurt,” Fenris said, gravely voice full of conflicting emotion.

“ _You are hurt_ ,” Carver mimicked in the high-pitched _sotto_ Bethany used to smack him upside the head for.

Predictably, Mother dove into action. “Oh my darling, are you all right? Are you still bleeding? Please, sit down—why didn’t you go see _Anders_ , dear?” Carver could hear her determinedly herding Aidan toward a chair despite his protests of,

“Mother, I’m all right. _I’m all right_. Really, most of it isn’t even mine!”

Carver threw down his breastplate; the booming clatter it made was soothing, somehow. Trouble’s barks redoubled in response, and for a blessed moment, his mother’s agitated fussing was drowned out. _Thanks for checking to see if I needed help_ , he thought, stripping out of his underarmor and grabbing a threadbare shirt. _Mother of the year, you are._

He paused, fingers curled around the worn cloth. That…wasn’t fair. Maybe Aidan had been right; maybe he _had_ been deliberately antagonistic over the past few weeks. It wasn’t without cause…but maybe he should try to curb the restless itch beneath his skin before he took his temper out on _everyone_ around him, deserving or not.

And then, beneath the scrape of the cache of potions being opened and Gamlen bitching about more supplies being used up in “your reckless son’s fool antics”, Carver heard a gravelly voice, pitched low, not meant for anyone’s ears but Aidan’s:

“You should not have gone without me.”

“I had Aveline and Carver there,” Aidan replied, voice pitched just as low. “I…didn’t want to bother you.”

“You were hurt. You— You should not have gone without me, Hawke.”

Carver sucked in a breath, letting it out in a hiss—and all at once, any temperance he may have attempted tonight burned away in blind fury. _Fuck your protective instincts, Fenris. Where were you when he woke screaming from the Fade?_ He wanted to shout. _Where were you when he nearly bled to death before us—when he moved quiet as a ghost through the house, broken, lost, beyond our reach?_

How _dare_ Fenris—how dare _anyone_ —think Carver couldn’t protect the people he loved? How dare anyone think Carver was nothing, was the unimportant one, was the _other Hawke_?

He yanked on his clothes, bristling with blind rage. He would show them. Somehow, someday soon, he would show them all. He slammed the chest closed and kicked past his armor, leaving it scattered across the bedroom floor. When he stormed back into the main room, his mother was busy pushing potions on Aidan while Fenris watched fixedly from a few paces back. Gamlen had already dismissed all of them to focus on spooning out a bowl of stew from the pot on the fire, and Trouble was yipping about Aidan’s feet, a mix of playful and protective in his hyper-intelligent eyes.

Carver drew a deep, fortifying breath, and waded into the chaos. “Mother, he’s _fine_. Trouble, _heel_.”

“You should have been watching him,” Mother chided, reaching out to brush a tangle of dark hair from Aidan’s brow. Aidan made an embarrassed noise and ducked away from the touch.

“Can we please stop acting like I’m hovering on my deathbed and instead explain what Fenris is doing here?” He suddenly twisted around to look at Fenris. “Not that I don’t want you here—I do! It’s just an…unexpected surprise, and…”

Fenris shifted from foot to foot. If Carver hadn’t known better, he would have said Fenris looked _sheepish_. “Your mother brought me. For dinner. She brooked no disagreement.”

“ _Mother_.”

She just tsked, scrubbing at Aidan’s face with a wet cloth as if he were a child. The aggrieved noise he made went a long way toward soothing Carver’s injured pride. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave him in that hulled-out mansion of his, eating Maker knows what surrounded by _corpses_.” She let out a breath. “No one deserves to live in that sort of squalor, much less Leto. Sorry, dear—Fenris. Regardless, we are going to do something about that _tomorrow_.”

Fenris and Aidan shot each other quick looks. Carver gave it all up as useless and went to join Uncle Gamlen in spooning out dinner.

“Maker take my hide,” Gamlen was muttering to himself. “And a pox upon all mages and their damned Voices. This is going to be a damned uncomfortable dinner; a bloody circus in my own bloody home. Andraste’s tits!”

Carver couldn’t agree more.


	23. Aidan

It was, Aidan decided, like watching an accident in slow motion. No, not an accident—that wasn’t near strong enough to describe the way this evening was unraveling. It was like watching a _catastrophe_ —an avalanche begun at the highest peaks of the Frostbacks, picking up energy and mass as it came barreling down in ever-increasing speeds.

It had all started with a quiet knock on the door, just as the family was sitting down to dinner. Aidan had gone to answer it, fighting to hide a limp from his eagle-eyed mother and Fenris; when Anders looked up from the stoop, expression brightening at the sight of him…he really should have just gone to hide in his bedroom.

At least then he would have been spared the warzone Anders and Fenris made of dinner, because of _course_ Mother had immediately invited him in, and of _course_ he’d been urged to stay and join them at the table, and of _course_ it had taken less than five minutes before the snipping began in earnest. It had snowballed from there, until, inevitably:

“I will not continue to break bread with an abomination.”

“I am _not an abomination_. Maker take you, how many times do I have to—”

“Oh dear,” Mother sighed, looking around the chaotic table with an unhappy frown between her brows. “This all escalated rather quickly.”

Carver muttered something darkly into his bowl of stew. Gamlen just pounded his chest with a belch, then glanced down toward where Fenris and Anders were facing off, bristling from opposite ends of the scarred wood. “If you’re done being dramatic, elf, pass the salt. This stew is weak as a day-old nug’s piss.”

Fenris shot him a hot glare; Aidan dropped his head onto his folded arms with a moan. He kept thinking the night couldn’t get any worse, and yet he kept getting proven wrong.

“Fastevas. You have arms. Get it yourself.”

“No need to throw a snit, elf. The abomination can pass it just as well.”

“I am _not_ a—”

And on. And on. Each of them fit together just right—or was it _just wrong_?—enough to start a new flare-up the moment the last had died down. If it wasn’t Fenris and Anders at each other’s throats, it was Carver deliberately needling both into a fever-hot defense. If it wasn’t _Carver_ , it was Gamlen being a tactless arse, or Mother unsubtly wondering aloud if Anders and Fenris wouldn’t be more _comfortable_ away from their respective hovels and living somewhere with decent clean floors, a sturdy bed, and three square meals a day.

But it wasn’t until Gamlen cut into her worried monolog with, “Well they aren’t moving in _here_ ,” and Mother moved past polite subterfuge to shoot back with, “They are your family’s _Voices_ , Gamlen,” that things truly got out of hand.

“You can’t be serious!” Carver snarled in his best _I will not stand for this_ voice. He slammed his fists down, sending the cutlery rattling. “We are _not_ opening our home to these two!”

“Well Junior’s finally said something that’s worth listening to,” Gamlen added, folding his arms. Aidan lifted his head just enough to see the shell-shocked look on Anders’ face, the tightness of Fenris’s jaw.

 _Oh, Mother, I could have told you that move was unwise_. There was no one more prickly and proud than the man he loved beyond all reason.

“Just listen to the both of you,” Mother scolded. Her color was high and her chin jutted forward; clearly she was in no mood to back down just to smooth ruffled feathers. “How could you think to deny the basic decency of a roof, a _home_ , to members of our own family?”

“Really, serrah Hawke,” Anders tried to cut in, “that is kind, but it’s—”

“ _Leandra_ ,” she stressed. “Please: I’d like to think we’re all comfortable enough to use our given names here. And I worry about you, dear, all alone in that terrible dank pit. We’re hardly living in luxury here, perhaps, but anything is better than Darktown. And Leto— _Fenris_ , apologies—in that ruined old mansion surrounded by dead bodies…”

Fenris abruptly stood, chair scraping across the floor. His mouth was set in a tight line and his eartips were flushed pink.

“ _Mother_ ,” Aidan hissed, reaching out to stop the tirade. If Bethany were here, she’d be on his side, rushing to settle tempers and still thoughtless words before they set a spark to the tinderbox they all found themselves in. “Please, let’s not—”

“He’s your Voice, Aidan,” she replied. He could hear the pain in her words, the years of strain. _She’s doing this because of Father_ , he thought with an anguished twist to his heart. _She’s just trying to protect the family she has left_ , but Maker, how could he make her understand that this was not the way to reach Fenris—Fenris, who was pacing the end of the room like a caged animal, _clearly_ seconds from slamming out the Hawke home, possibly never to return. “He’s your Voice, and Anders is dear Bethany’s Voice, and that means they are a part of this family whether you,” this time directed at her brother, “want to admit it or not.”

Gamlen opened his mouth to retort—but it was Carver who shoved himself away from the table and snarled, “ _Bethany is dead!_ ”

The room went silent.

Aidan slowly straightened, heart hammering in his chest, the scars mapping his skin beginning to itch as his muscles went tight. Down the table, Anders clenched his hands into fists. Trouble began to whine, like a dirge.

“Bethany’s dead,” Carver repeated belligerently, refusing to be waylaid by their ring of shocked faces, “and never bonded with Anders, anyway. He is _not_ a part of this family. And no matter what happens, _Fenris_ very nearly gutted Aidan years ago. Why the _fuck_ should we open our arms to them like they have a right to be at this table?”

“ _Carver_ ,” Mother gasped. Her hand had risen to her throat, and she was very pale.

His big hands curled into fists. “It’s true. None of us will say it, but it’s true. And you, sitting there playing clan matriarch as if it weren’t just a pack of lies you’re trying to feed us all, when we know, we _know_ better. Bethany died on the road from Lothering and Aidan woke from the Fade _broken_ ,” he thrust an angry finger toward Fenris, “and it was _his_ fault and _no one but me_ is willing to say it!”

“Carver.” Aidan almost didn’t recognize his own voice. It was deeper, rougher, _older_. He was speaking with _Father’s_ voice, but Maker, he was so coldly furious he almost felt as if he were outside his own body. He stood, fingertips itching with power he refused to spill, eyes catching and locking with his brother’s.

The world narrowed down into that single connection.

Held.

Carver lifted his jaw, but he didn’t try to look away. There were angry tears on his lashes, Aidan saw with a gradual softening, and beyond the belligerent stance, there was a world of pain, too. All of them were hurting, had been through _so much_ , but sometimes it could be so easy to overlook what Carver must have gone through: watching his siblings claimed by magic, sitting alone as Father taught them spellcraft, Voiceless and increasingly frustrated as he hunched over his family like a kicked dog with its favored bone, knowing there was nothing he could do if someone were truly intent on taking them away.

How powerless Carver must have felt. How frightened, and angry with himself for giving in to fear. How _alone_ , because no matter how hard the rest of them tried, no matter how hard _Aidan_ tried, there was always some important… _something_ missing between them. Aidan and Bethany had understood each other down to the bone. They spoke the same language.

No one spoke Carver’s language but Carver. And here Mother was trying to pull in more of her special mage-touched children, to the exclusion of the one who could only see himself as ordinary.

It made so much sense, why Carver was filled with rage. But it didn’t excuse him. It couldn’t.

“You go too far,” Aidan said in an even voice, trying to express his understanding threaded through the censure.

Carver, as always, only heard the rebuke. “And _you_ , playing man of the family,” he snapped. “When we all know _you’re_ the reason Bethany isn’t here.”

“ _Carver!_ ” Mother gasped, but Aidan held up a quelling hand, never once looking away.

“Carver,” he said, building a wall around his own reflexive hurt, his flinch of pain at those words finally spilled between them like blood on the cobblestones, “you go too far.”

And he knew it, too. Aidan could read that in his expression, could read the regret and pride and anxiety and _relief_ at finally having that poisonous thought lanced. It was so incredibly frustrating how easy Carver could be to read sometimes, and yet how impossible Aidan found it to _communicate_ with him.

Slowly, as if fighting against himself, Carver dropped his gaze. His fists were so tight, the knuckles had bled white. Aidan wanted to reach for him, but he knew the gesture wouldn’t be appreciated—not with Anders and Fenris still ringed silent and shell-shocked around the family table. Maybe not even if they had been alone. He opened his mouth to say something to try to break the tension now that Carver’s rebellion had quieted…

…but of course Gamlen beat him to it. “Sodding bunch of drama bleeding out of every asshole in the place,” he scoffed, reaching for the last of the bread. “No need to go see a fool’s troop when you lot are cluttering up the main room, aye?”

“ _Gamlen_ ,” Mother sighed, relaxing back into her chair. Down the table, Anders very slowly nched his fists, the faint glow of blue-white magic fading away.

“Oh sod off, you useless old drunk,” Carver snapped. He turned and shoved his chair away, shoulders hunching forward into his familiar defensive posture. “I’m going for a bloody walk.” The whole tiny hovel quaked when he slammed out the door.

Trouble yipped; Gamlen snorted. “Fine job you did raising your sons, Leandra,” he said. “A right credit to the Amell name, the lot of them.”

Mother sighed and stood, lips pressed into a firm line. “Brother,” she said, moving around the table, “please take this in the spirit with which it is intended, but: you can bloody well fuck off. Now!” she added, reaching out to rest a warm hand on Anders’ shoulder. The smile that touched her face was still a little sad, a little _hurt_ , but she was soldiering through. She _always_ soldiered through. “I don’t suppose I could convince the two of you to stay for dessert? I made something special for tonight, and I would like—I would _love_ —for you to join us.”

“Serrah Hawke,” Anders began tiredly.

“Leandra,” she interrupted, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Leandra,” Anders corrected. He darted a quick glance toward Fenris, who still stood several paces away, poised like a startled cat on the verge of fleeing. “I— Probably should return to the clinic. I only left because I received your message that Aidan had been injured.”

And healed, before the dinner had even started. Though Aidan suspected Mother would have found a way to lure Anders into joining them even if Aidan hadn’t stumbled into a nest of slavers. Aidan ticked his gaze up to find Fenris’s eyes on him; they were big and dark in the dim candlelight, his expression a closed door. Maker, how Aidan ached to reach out to him.

“…another hour,” Mother was saying. “And you, dear Leto— _Fenris_.” All three of them flinched a little at that slip, in the wake of Carver’s harsh words. “Please, do join us.”

Fenris hesitated before slowly shaking his head, breaking eye contact with a dip of his lashes. It felt like losing something very precious. “No, I must go,” he said, with an oddly formal, excruciatingly polite lilt to his words. Despite himself, Aidan felt his heart flutter a beat over Fenris making such an effort to be kind to his mother, as if… What? What did it mean that he had come tonight? What was he thinking, feeling? Where did things stand between them? “But I thank you for the invitation and the meal.” He darted his gaze quickly between Aidan and his mother—very obviously ignoring Anders and Gamlen—and gave something very close to a shallow bow.

Something he had learned at his master’s heel? Aidan hated to think that might be the case. He rose unsteadily to his feet as Fenris turned away, wanting to… He had no idea. Not _ask_ him, but— Reach out to him. Stop him. Follow him. _Something._

The door was opening and sliding shut with a quiet _click_ before he could do any of that, and Mother was herding Anders toward the fireplace to warm himself while she prepared plates of dessert, and Aidan was just standing there uselessly. Helplessly. _Yearning_ and anxious and still so hurt and angry and afraid.

If Carver’s accusations had broken the fragile peace between Fenris and himself… It didn’t bear thinking about.

He couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it.

He gave a huff of breath and turned, startling when he realized Gamlen was still at the table, watching him with shrewd grey eyes. He had Mother’s face, dissipated from years of neglect and indulgence. The frown lines were deeper about his mouth, and the laugh lines were almost entirely missing, but Aidan couldn’t help but see the resemblance there, especially now—especially with the open, knowing way his was looking at him.

 _He’d_ lost family to magic, too, when Father came to spirit Mother away. He wondered if he shared Carver’s bitterness.

“You’re really making a mess of this whole _Voice_ thing, you know,” Gamlen said conversationally.

Aidan blinked, taken by surprise. “I’m…sorry? What?”

Gamlen gestured vaguely toward the door. “I don’t know all this Fade-bond business from _balls_ , but I do know you don’t just let your girlfriend go prancing off with sore feelings after a night like this. _Go after the elf,_ ” he translated when Aidan just sputtered at him. “Maker’s beard, you’d think Leandra would have raised smarter children than this.”

“But he’s— You’re— I—” There were _so many_ protests he could make to that, so many explanations of why just giving in to temptation and running after Fenris was a bad idea. Fenris wasn’t like most people—he was prickly in ways Aidan was still learning to defend against, each conversation a potential minefield. Chances for a major misstep were monumental.

 _Catastrophic._ Wasn’t that the word he’d settled on earlier? Did he have it in him to risk another catastrophe?

His gaze was drawn back to the door. His heart was actually pounding. Go after him, or stay? After an evening snipping with Anders and being attacked by Carver, Fenris would probably want to be alone to nurse his stung pride. But. What if he wouldn’t? What if he wanted Aidan instead?

What if, after Carver’s accusation, he needed him?

That thought, that potential need, was enough to decide him. They had been apart for so long; he couldn’t bear the thought of Fenris wanting him and not being close to answer that silent call.

Aidan moved quickly around the table, not even bothering to snag his staff. He threw the latch and shoved out the door, ignoring Gamlen’s snort and his mother’s, “Goodness, where is he off to in such a hurry?” The door slammed behind him, a sharp counterpoint to his racing heart, and he was down the steps and out into the street before common sense could stay his hand. It was a long way from the slums to Fenris’s ruined mansion in Hightown, and more than a little dangerous at night, but if he stuck to the main paths and kept a wary eye out, he could—

He startled when a rock skittered across the cobbles next to him, nearly clipping his ankle. Aidan turned, warily scanning the rooftops for Carta or Coterie or the usual band of thugs who took to the rooftops at night.

Another rock skittered past, flung from the roof of his _own_ house. He moved back several paces to get a better view, calling up mana—and as he looked, a shadowy figure slowly rose from its crouch at the lip of the roof, silver hair catching the light of the moon. Even the lyrium scars, a familiar mirror to his own, seemed to glow in the dim.

All the breath left him in an instant. It felt as if someone had punched a hand into his chest to give his heart a brutal _squeeze_.

“Fenris,” Aidan murmured.

Fenris gestured sharply, then moved away from the edge. That was all the invitation Aidan needed. He clambered back up the steps, climbing onto the stone railing and grabbing for the drainpipe. It was a simple thing to drag himself up onto the mostly-flat rooftop from there, legs scrambling uselessly for just a moment before he managed to find purchase and roll up onto his stomach, then get his knees beneath him. Fenris moved close again, reaching out a hand—

—and Aidan clasped it in his own. Fenris’s palm was calloused, warm ( _Maker_ , so warm) and steady. He gripped Aidan’s hand and pulled him with that improbable strength, hoisting him the rest of the way so very easily.

Aidan stumbled on a loose tile and staggered forward a step, nearly crashing into Fenris. When he caught himself, they were only a breath away, faces so close he could see the surprised warmth in Fenris’s eyes, clasped hands locked between their bodies.

Maker, his knuckles were pressed to Fenris’s chest; he could feel his heart _racing_.

Then Fenris turned his face away and let go, quickly putting distance between them. But the breath was knocked out of Aidan all the same, and his body was alight with slowly unfurling heat. He could only remember feeling like this once before, and in that memory, Aidan once again felt young and hopeful.

“I thought you’d already gone,” he said quietly, moving to join Fenris to stand on the far ledge. Here they could see out over the alienage toward the sea. The moon hung low, still rising toward the night sky, but the stars were spread above them in a brilliant canopy. 

Fenris tipped his chin up toward the sky. Silver-white hair fell away from the strong lines of his face, swinging past the length of his pointed ears to brush his collar. He wasn’t in his unusual spiky black armor, and Aidan couldn’t remember ever seeing him look so…soft. Not since he’d come back into Aidan’s life with a new name and a bone-deep hatred of magic.

 _Walk carefully_ , he had to remind himself, forcibly keeping his hands at his sides. Fenris may have looked softer tonight, more approachable, but that didn’t mean Aidan had the right to approach. He had to take this one step at a time and let Fenris dictate the pace of their progress…if there was to be progress at all.

“I…thought I had as well,” Fenris finally said after a long stretch of silence. His eyes didn’t drop from the constellations, though his lashes flickered as if he were fighting the urge. “I meant to, but—Hawke.”

Aidan waited, breath stuttering, but Fenris lapsed back into silence. Finally, unable to bear the suspense, Aidan prompted, “Yes?”

Fenris finally looked down, sharp chin dropping. His brows knit as he glowered at his own bare feet. “Hhn,” he said, crossing his arms over his stomach. It was a defensive enough posture that Aidan let it be his cue, moving to sit several paces away. It put him at a disadvantage, Fenris towering over him in a visible position of strength…but he was glad, more than glad, to cede any power Fenris needed.

 _It’s all right_ , he could have said. _I won’t push you. I would never._

The other man didn’t relax at the symbolic gesture. If anything, his muscles tightened even more, shoulders rounding in on himself as if he were bracing for a blow. His brows were knit fully into a scowl now, but he didn’t seem angry. He didn’t… _feel_ angry.

(And Aidan knew, he _knew_ that they weren’t fully bonded—that he couldn’t sense Fenris’s moods the way his parents had been able to sense each other, but… There was something there, wasn’t there? He _was_ feeling something, dancing at the edges of his senses. A glimmer of awareness…or delusion. Maker, funny how easy the two were to confuse when it came to this infuriating, wonderful man.)

Aidan thread his fingers and rested his elbows against his knees, keeping his face tipped up and expression open. Baring his throat. That was how wolves indicated surrender, wasn’t it? He should remember to ask Merrill.

“What Carver said,” Fenris finally spoke, voice gravel-rough. He turned until he was standing directly over Aidan, slim form outlined by stars. “About how you were affected by what Danarius did…”

“Carver is a tit,” Aidan said quickly.

“Be that as it may.” He hesitated again, then sank into an uneasy crouch before Aidan, putting them on the same level again. Aidan wondered whether it was a conscious decision on Fenris’s behalf or whether he was reading far too much into these things. “I do not…like…the thought that you may have been…” Fenris clenched his fists but didn’t look away, no matter how obvious it was that he wanted to. A faint flush of color was slowly creeping up his cheeks, his ears. “Hurt,” he finally settled on. The word almost caught in his throat. “I do not like the thought of you… _hurt_.”

It hurt a little, now, hearing him say that. It hurt not reaching out to cup eager fingers along Fenris’s tight jaw. “It was a long time ago,” Aidan tried to demur. Fenris made a scoffing noise at that, dismissive; Aidan switched tracks. “It hurt for a long time, but the worst of it was not knowing if _you_ were okay. I had my father there to heal me, and my mother and brother and sister to look out for me. You…I was pretty sure you didn’t have anyone, and I could no longer find you in the Fade to know for certain whether you’d even survived.”

Fenris finally turned his face away and Aidan sighed. “I know you don’t like hearing that,” he said, “and I’ve promised I won’t try to seek you out now that we’re…near each other. I’ll keep that promise. But back then—we had just spoken for the first time. We had _kissed_. I swore to you I was yours, and I was so unbelievably happy, and then suddenly there was blood and pain and when I came back to myself, you were gone. I won’t lie and say losing you was easy on me. I lost myself for some time.”

“I don’t remember you, beyond a maddening feeling that I should,” Fenris said. The words were harsh, but there was a baffled gentleness underlying the tone—a frustration, as if Fenris _wanted_ to remember. He sat back on his heels and raked his fingers through his hair roughly. “I don’t remember any of this. Not the ritual, not meeting you, not—”

His eyes dropped to Aidan’s mouth.

Aidan wet his lips. His skin prickled and his stomach was bottoming out, like he was in free-fall. It always felt like this when Fenris’s eyes brushed him like a caress—like Fenris was _considering_ reaching out to follow his gaze with his fingertips. The attraction between them was palpable. Fenris hid it well when they were amongst their friends—thank the Maker or Isabela would never let it rest—but when they were alone, sharing a bottle of wine and old stories in his mansion as was their custom, sometimes he let himself relax back and… _look_ at Aidan.

Seduce him with nothing more than the dip of his lashes and the way he parted his lips.

He shivered, rubbing his hands over his arms, and tried to ignore the heat unspooling through his body. He was getting flustered from just a look, and he knew his cheeks were flushing with color. Fenris had to know how he was affecting Aidan—but Aidan’s gut-deep response never made him stop. It never pushed him into action either. They were in a holding pattern, like birds circling high in the air over a fresh kill. 

Aidan ticked his gaze up, and Fenris was still watching his lips, a tense hunger on his face. _Kiss me_ , Aidan thought, but he bit his lip to keep the words from tumbling out. He’d made a promise to himself from the first time he noticed how skittish this thrumming, undeniable attraction between them made Fenris—he would never be the aggressor. In anything. Fenris knew how he felt; if Fenris wanted Aidan, all he had to do was reach out and take him. More importantly, he had to trust that _Aidan_ would not be the one to reach out and try to…force his hand.

Fenris was a free man now. Aidan would rather die than try to force him into anything.

He shifted, drawing up his knees to try to hide his body’s natural reaction to Fenris’s proximity. He couldn’t so easily hide his erratic breath or the racing of his heart. “When I first told you about this,” Aidan began slowly, trying to force his thoughts away from that thrumming heat, “I mentioned I didn’t remember much of the aftermath—that you should ask Carver if you wanted to know more. I take it…?”

“No,” Fenris said. “I did not.”

Aidan offered a wobbly smile. “I suppose that’s for the best, considering.”

“Tell me what _you_ can.” Fenris hesitated, dark brows narrowing, then added in a gruff tone, “I would rather hear it from you regardless.”

That shouldn’t— _shouldn’t_ —make his heart feel so light. Aidan dropped his head with a low puff of breath, fighting against the helpless surge of joy he felt whenever Fenris carefully dropped his defenses and allowed himself to be so…close. Not just physically (though he was trembling with awareness of just how close Fenris was sitting, of just how little armor there was separating them) but in _all_ ways. Fenris was easily the most careful, most guarded, most reflexively defensive person Aidan had ever met—but sometimes, he was willing to lower those defenses just enough to let Aidan near.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._ “It wasn’t until I touched you that it started to hurt,” Aidan began slowly. “I remember trying to heal you at first, but I didn’t know how. There wasn’t time to go fetch my father, and no guarantee that even if we had the lyrium, we’d be able to find you again before it was too late. So I knelt over you as you…screamed…and I touched your face.”

“Show me,” Fenris said, leaning in. His knees brushed Aidan’s shins.

“…I’m sorry?”

Fenris made an annoyed noise, like a low scoff, and reached out to take Aidan’s hands in his. But even though he was frowning with impatience, there was no denying the tremble that passed between them when they touched—the _spark_ the burned sudden and fierce and bright in Aidan’s chest. Their eyes met, locked, as Fenris slowly lifted Aidan’s hands toward him. His voice, when he spoke, was very deep. “Show me how you touched me.”

 _Oh Maker_ , if it was possible to die of happiness, he would be well and truly gone. Aidan swallowed and reached the rest of the way, framing Fenris’s face the way he had many years before. His thumbs brushed over dark skin, following the arc of his cheekbones. His breath came in ragged pants—but then, Fenris was breathing just as quickly, leaning almost imperceptivity into the touch.

“Like this?” he murmured.

Aidan couldn’t speak; he just nodded.

Fenris reached up to lightly grasp his wrists again…but he didn’t pull Aidan’s hands away. If anything, he held them there, trapped against the incredible warm of his skin. With each soft breeze, Aidan could feel silky silver-white hair brushing his knuckles. “I see,” Fenris said. “And then?”

“I told you I loved you,” Aidan said.

He was so close he could hear the catch of Fenris’s breath. He had to know how Aidan felt, of course, but there was power in words. Aidan supposed there was even more power in those words, for a man who had heard them so little in his life—who quite probably couldn’t remember ever hearing them at all.

“And then?” His voice had dropped again, so rough it sounded painful, as if Fenris had to force out the words.

Aidan wet his lips, fingertips brushing delicately across Fenris’s temples, up the delicate shell of his ears. It seemed sacrosanct, and yet the way Fenris closed his eyes in reflexive pleasure could only be permission. Andraste, this was nearly enough to unmake him. “And then the pain. I don’t know how long it lasted.”

Fenris stilled, grip loosening and Aidan reluctantly dropped his hands. “They said that cuts kept appearing even when I snapped out of the Fade. Father tried to heal me, but more and more arose, faster than he could knit them closed. That’s why I have scars—in the end, he was too exhausted to keep up.”

“You said, before, that you left Denerim when you were this age,” Fenris pointed out. “Was that why you had to leave?”

Fenris remembered so many details from those stories Aidan told. That really shouldn’t have made him as happy as it did. “You have a good memory,” he said, fighting to keep his tone light.

“I listen to you,” Fenris murmured, looking up through his lashes and making Aidan’s breath catch.

It was unfair how beautiful Fenris was. It was unfair how deeply it affected him—rocked him to the core—when he chuckled at one of Aidan’s ridiculous jokes, or glanced up with a wry twist of his mouth, or said his name in that _voice_ of his, like water over gravel. His toes curled and his stomach twisted and his body came _alive_ —and it _wasn’t fair_ because he wanted so badly to be able to keep a level head around this man and knew that he never, ever would.

“What are we doing, Fenris?” Aidan asked, that strain more than clear in his voice. He gestured between them, sitting so close now that their knees brushed every time they shifted, bodies visibly pitched forward as if leaning toward each other like broken pillars, hands…hands almost clasping. An inch of movement in either way and they would be.

He promised himself he wouldn’t push, and he _wouldn’t_ , but he had to know. There was a madness to not knowing.

“I’m happy to follow wherever you lead,” he continued earnestly, watching Fenris for any sign of discomfort. “Answer any question, go anywhere, do anything. But…right now, here—what are we doing?”

Fenris hesitated for a long, long time, then carefully cleared his throat. “I…do not know,” he said, that oddly formal lilt back in his voice.

Aidan supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything else. “Fair enough,” he said, forcing himself to relax into the moment. The anticipation, the _yearning_ , may very well kill him, but so long as Fenris was content to remain here with him, he wasn’t going to—

—and suddenly, with only a hitched breath as warning, Fenris surged forward to bridge the small distance between them…and brought their mouths together for the first time in years.

For the first time in the waking world.


	24. Fenris

He had no idea what he was doing.

That wasn’t new, exactly. There were plenty of experiences he’d had in the wide waking world that were beyond anything he’d learned at Danarius’s heels. But usually Fenris skirted away from anything that fell too far outside his understanding, not wanting to be seen as ridiculous. Uncertain. _Lost_.

He was well and truly lost now. Hawke gasped against his mouth, hands lifting to touch Fenris’s face again. Fenris caught him before he could complete the motion, fingers gripping Hawke’s wrists, mouth slanting over his again and again—and yet there was no part of him that wanted to break free. There was no part of him that didn’t want this more than he’d ever wanted anything he could remember. 

And that was its own kind of terror.

Fenris made a low noise and pressed in tighter, hating the way his heart lurched in response to Hawke’s little tremble. The way the other man felt, smelled, _tasted_ —it was too much and not enough all at once. He wanted to shove him down and devour him; he wanted to curl around his big body and arch into his touch.

It was ridiculous; he was ridiculous. He shouldn’t, couldn’t want this.

And yet…Hawke’s mouth parted at the swipe of his tongue. Hawke shuddered and pressed ever closer, hands moving restlessly in Fenris’s grip as if he wanted to reach out and _touch_ him. Fenris tightened his grasp and stroked their tongues together, struggling not to quake inside at the slick heat. Venhedis. If he had allowed himself to dream about how Hawke would taste…

_Warm and golden; the smell of hay and apples and sunshine. Copper-blood-tang that always seemed to follow him now, and the hum of magic that was just this side of unnerving._

Fenris could feel the thrum of Hawke’s powers beneath his skin, could feel the lyrium in his body responding with flickering excitement, and it _should not_ have been pleasurable. He remembered the pain Danarius could cause with a single twist of his magic; there was nothing, _nothing_ that should make Hawke different.

But oh Maker take him, everything about Hawke was different.

“I hate you,” Fenris murmured in Arcanum into the kiss. He bit at Hawke’s lower lip just shy of too hard, swiping his tongue to ease away the sting. The way that Hawke moaned rocked through him, made him shift and buck forward, and he wanted—

He was up on his knees before he fully realized what it was he wanted, pushing forward as if to straddle Hawke’s lap. Fenris jerked back, flushing at the sudden scalding heat of their full-body contact; his breath came in quick, harsh pants. When he pulled away, Hawke leaned forward as if reluctant to break the kiss. His eyes were closed, lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks, and his lips were wet. Kiss-reddened.

Fenris had done that.

Fuck. That shouldn’t have made his body tighten in reflexive arousal the way it did. He was hard, getting harder just _kneeling_ there staring at Hawke like a lackwit. He wanted to sink his fingers into his hair and thrust his tongue possessively into his mouth. The things he could do with this man.

He made a low noise in the back of his throat.

Hawke’s eyes slowly opened, stupidly long lashes flickering. His grey eyes were blown wide, dark, and the sight of his response was almost enough to drag a satisfied growl out of Fenris. What madness was this?

“Um,” Hawke said. He bit his own lip, and that was enough to refocus Fenris’s attention. He watched, feeling the hunger burning inside of him, wanting… Wanting…

Fastevas, he could not say what he wanted; he just _wanted._

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke said, voice gone decidedly breathless. “Okay, one, do you realize you are actually _growling_?”

He hadn’t, but that seemed beside the point. The point was… _The point was_ Hawke was sitting there, close, his pulse racing madly beneath Fenris’s fingertips, his face tipped toward his, and it took all of Fenris’s willpower not to shove forward into his arms—not to hook his legs around his waist and ride the unsteady buck of his hips, not to lick back into his mouth, to swallow his moan and his tongue at once, not to tip forward and _grind_ against him. He was hard, he was so unbelievably hard, and the impulse to yank Hawke close and claim him once and for all was a fire in his blood.

He barely knew this man; he knew everything about him. He _wanted him._

Fenris let go of Hawke’s wrists and passed trembling fingers over his face. “Festis bei umo cana varum,” he muttered. “Do not look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Hawke said. He shifted and Fenris dropped his hand just enough to watch with narrowed eyes as Hawke leaned back, _invitingly_ , the Maker-taken ass. His lashes dipped, dilated grey eyes watching Fenris, and the thing he was doing with his mouth…

That. That was definitely deliberate.

“Stop,” Fenris said flatly.

Hawke’s lips twisted into this little, sweet, almost-bashful, _happy_ smile. The joy there, bubbling up to spread across his ridiculously handsome face made something in Fenris’s chest catch, and he had to look away before he did something stupid—like begin to smile back. 

“Stop what?” Hawke said. Even his voice was unfairly attractive, low and rumbling with the flat vowels of Ferelden. Then, before Fenris could say anything more: “You kissed me.”

Fenris let out a breath. “Yes,” he said, shifting restlessly.

“Fenris.” 

He looked up at his name, said in that low, rumbling voice. The look in Hawke’s eyes made his breath catch and his heart give a hard lurch in his chest, as if he’d reached into his own body to give it a _squeeze_. Hawke’s eyes were on him, the humor still toying at the corners of his mouth…but there was a vulnerability there too in the open, _honest_ , hopeful way he was watching Fenris. Leaning back on his hands, body a strong arch, at Fenris’s mercy if only Fenris were to push forward and take what he wanted.

What, despite the warnings screaming in his head, he needed.

“Yes?” Fenris murmured, voice just shy of a growl.

Hawke _shivered_. “Will you kiss me again?” he murmured, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. Fenris felt the kneejerk response deep in his bones. He pressed forward before he realized what he was doing, moving into a predatory crouch and _looming_ over the other man; his eyes dropped to Hawke’s parted lips and they were all at once so close he could feel the restless shift of his body, the way he arched up to get _more_.

“Yes,” Fenris said, refusing to listen to the part of himself yelling that he was veering hard into a crash, that he had no business sinking his hands into black curls (thick and silky and snarling about his fingers) and swiping his tongue hungrily past parted lips and _taking_ everything he wanted from the man who refused to stop haunting his dreams.

It was a madness, it was a sickness, it was… It was… It was…

Right now, here, it was everything.

Maker, this was dangerous.

Fenris made a low noise into Hawke’s mouth and pressed closer, allowing himself ( _finally_ ) to slide into his lap. Hawke’s hands lifted to catch his waist, and the touch should have been enough to send him skittering back again. Fenris _hated_ being touched—he went out of his way to avoid it, hissing and glowering like a wet cat when it happened against his express permission.

But this, here, _Aidan_ —there was something so right about the feel of those hands on him, that mouth beneath his. If Fenris allowed himself such flights of fancy, he could almost say their hearts were beating together, just shy of too fast. That they really were made for each other.

Annoyed with himself, Fenris twisted his fingers hard in Hawke’s hair and pulled him roughly into the kiss. He licked deep into his mouth, teeth scoring the eager thrust of his tongue. Hawke moaned in response and Fenris pressed closer— _closer_. His knees gripped the span of Hawke’s hips as his legs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of Hawke’s back. It gave him some false sense of security, of control, to twine about him as if he never intended to let go, forcing his head back for a plundering kiss that went on and on and on.

 _Slick_. Hot. Tongues tangling and breaths coming in ragged pants as he rode the unsteady lift of Hawke’s body. He could feel the scalding hot brand of his erection—was all too aware of his own cock dragging along the surprisingly firm line of Hawke’s belly—and it was all Fenris could do to swallow his moans; to feed them back to Hawke with the too-eager thrust of his tongue.

He dragged his nails along Hawke’s scalp and rode the hard buck of his hips. Hawke was crying out into the kiss, hands moving restlessly up Fenris’s back, over his body as if he could map the sharp angles of him through layers of clothing. Fenris broke the kiss on a hissing sigh when Hawke slid his fingers through his hair, thumbs tracing the points of his ears; his breath came in hard, wet gasps.

 _Mine_ , he thought, pulling just enough away to meet dazed grey eyes. Fenris slid his hands down, nails digging furrows along the back of Hawke’s neck—and Maker, the noise he made, broken open and wanting, as if all Fenris had to do was ask and Hawke would give him _everything_. This, all this—this impossible man—was _his_ for the taking.

“Fuck, yes,” Hawke murmured, hands dropping again to grip Fenris’s hips. He rocked up, moving against him with little, frustrated jerks. Each thrust skittered through Fenris’s body like a lightning storm; how much better would it feel if he pushed Hawke to the rough rooftop and followed him down down down, hips fitting snugly together, mouths finding each other in the gathering darkness? “ _Yes_ , I’m yours. Always.”

Fenris hissed in a breath that came out a moment later as a growl; he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but he couldn’t bring himself to want to take it back. Ever since he’d moved down those crumbling steps into the alienage and met Hawke’s eyes, he’d felt like…

Like some missing part of him was finally clicking into place. Like for as long as he could remember, the world had been howling in rage around him, and for the first time, everything had gone silent. Like— _peace_ , or some fool’s approximation of that, and it burned in his gut how much he needed this man even as he fought to get closer. His nails dragged over pale skin none-too-gently, his teeth pulled at Hawke’s eager mouth, and he _fought_ against the rising protest that _this can’t be real; this is some mage’s trick_ even as he swiped his tongue across the bloodied mark his teeth had left behind and rumbled something very close to a possessive snarl.

_Mine, mine, mine._

He could have stayed like that for hours, kissing Hawke with a growing hunger—body arching against his, riding the short ruts of his hips, loving the increasingly desperate keens rising from his throat as if he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t control the need spilling out of him in messy waves. It was intoxicating, this power he had over Hawke…and terrifying, knowing the mage had a similar power over _him_ as well.

His Voice.

As if he truly understood what that meant.

Fenris broke away with a low noise, turning his face when Hawke would have pressed into the kiss again. He tipped his chin, dragging in harsh, panting breaths; the tight grip of Hawke’s hands on him were at once steadying and unnerving. He felt the warning flicker of his lyrium and dipped his lashes, watching as the breath of space between them was lit with ghostly blue.

Hawke went still; then, without being asked, he dropped his hands and let Fenris retreat back from the welcoming warmth of his body. “I’m sorry,” Hawke murmured; his voice was a husky wreck of itself. “I didn’t mean to, ah—I just got a little too excited, that’s all.”

 _Excited_. He didn’t have to glance down to translate what that meant, but he did anyway. When his gaze brushed over the undeniable bulge between Hawke’s legs, Hawke had the grace to flush.

“I see,” Fenris said, then quickly shut his mouth. His own voice sounded hollowed out with need, and he shifted uncomfortably against the steady throb between his own thighs. He wished he could just reach out and force Hawke back into his arms—could let himself be pressed back against the rooftop and stripped bare and _taken_. The image that painted behind his lids was both energizing and unnerving; he squirmed away from it, muscles going tense.

“Fenris,” Hawke said; his voice dropped low and gentle, as if he could sense Fenris’s unease. “It’s okay. I’m not going to touch you unless you tell me I can—”

He cut off when Fenris jerked up a warning hand. Below them, the Hawke’s front door opened.

“Thank you again for dinner, Leandra,” the abomination was saying in a disgustingly ingratiating tone. “I appreciate the invitation.”

“And thank you for coming, dear Anders. Please know that you are _always_ welcome here. Our door is always open to any friend of Aidan’s and…and Bethany.”

There was a brief, heavy silence. “Yes,” Anders finally said. “I. Thank you.”

Fenris stayed very still, _listening_ as they said their goodbyes. The door slid shut with a soft _click_ of the latch and the abomination stood there on the steps for a long, long minute before sighing heavily and finally trudging down the steps to wind his way out of Lowtown. The city was quiet enough for once that Fenris could hear each footstep clear as a heartbeat—he strained to listen as they shuffled away toward the docks. The reappearance of the abomination was a sudden-shock reminder of something that had been toying at the back of his mind for some time now. Perhaps… Perhaps now was the time to take care of it once and for all.

“Fenris,” Hawke murmured in that low, diplomatic tone of his. As if he could hope to reel him back from the sudden dark tumble of his thoughts.

And who knew? Maybe he could. Hawke had a power over him that was as necessary as it was maddening. But now wasn’t the time to give in to it.

“The Deep Roads,” Fenris suddenly said, cutting Hawke off before he could say more. “You’re very close to having enough to meet Bartrand’s demands, are you not?”

Hawke shifted back to get a closer look at him, brows knit together. That clearly hadn’t been what he’d expected. It felt unaccountably good to know he could still surprise the mage. “I— Yes. Another job or two and I’ll have enough.”

“And you’ve already decided who will go with you?”

“Um. Well, I’ve got some ideas, yes.”

He could just make out the subtle shifts in Hawke’s expression in the moonlight. The passion was still there—was still enough to make Fenris’s pulse thrum—but it was beginning to cool as he focused on their conversation. It shouldn’t have felt so good, the way Hawke so willingly followed his lead in these things.

Stop. Go. Slow. Frantic. Fenris knew he was being unkind, _toying_ with Hawke unintentionally, but his moods were so void-taken mercurial even _he_ couldn’t say what would be too much…not enough. He had never seen Hawke coming—how could he possibly be expected to be ready for what he stirred inside him?

Ducking his head, fighting the flush creeping over his cheeks and ears, Fenris reached out and very carefully, very deliberately placed a hand over Hawke’s.

“Take _me_ ,” Fenris said.

Hawke wet his lips, a flush of his own sweeping over his features. Fenris followed its progress in the darkness, fascinated by the delicate swirl of color, the endearing way Hawke—Aidan—ducked his head and dropped his lashes in obvious pleasure. He was _touched_ and trying to hide the sudden swell of emotion. “You don’t need to volunteer unless you truly want to go,” he said. “It will be a long, dank, dark trek with the very real possibility of nothing but darkspawn at its end.”

Fenris hesitated— _hated_ that he hesitated even as he hated the foolish impulse that had started this—then slowly reached up to cup Hawke’s cheek. The bristles of his beard tickled the curve of his palm, and he was hyperaware that if he brushed his thumb along Hawke’s chin, he’d be able to trace the markings they shared.

Maker, this impossible man had already done _so much_ for him. It made him uncomfortable how deep his debt was going.

“I would come with you,” he said slowly, finding his words carefully. “To…protect you.”

Hawke closed his eyes on sudden emotion, reaching up to lay one hand along Fenris’s. Fenris allowed it.

“If that is what you want,” he murmured. “I will tell Aveline you are coming in her place.”

Fenris slowly tugged his hand away; he flexed his fingers, unable to meet Hawke’s eyes. “And your second companion? Varric said you could bring only two in addition to him.”

As always, Hawke responded immediately and respectfully to his shift in mood—in comfort level—folding his legs beneath him and dropping his hands into his lap. “Carver, of course. He’d wear my insides as a hat if I tried to leave him. And that’s not just me being dramatic—he actually threatened to _wear my insides as a hat_.”

He was supposed to chuff a laugh—Hawke was trying to amuse him—but Fenris’s mind was already too far away. He frowned down at the rough rooftop, worrying at the edges of his protective instincts like a starving dog. Carver. Whatever else he could say about the younger Hawke boy, he _was_ a skilled warrior. The two of them together might very well be enough to keep Hawke safe.

And yet…

Yet.

“I must go,” Fenris said, rising abruptly. Hawke startled, tilting his head to look up at him, but Fenris turned away before he could catch more than a glimpse of his face. He felt naked in his worry for this man. “Do not tell Varric who you have chosen until I have spoken with you again.”

“All right,” Hawke said, slowly rising to his knees as Fenris stalked restlessly away. His back was to the other man, but he could picture him so clearly. _Too_ clearly. It was incredible how well he knew Hawke after so short an acquaintance. “If that’s what you want. Fenris,” he added before Fenris could drop down from the roof and make his suddenly very necessary escape.

Fenris went still, waiting.

“Will this…happen again?”

He didn’t have to ask what Hawke meant by _this_. He could still taste him on his lips; he could still feel the heat of his body, the impression of his grip as he held on to Fenris’s hips. “Yes,” Fenris said without looking back.

Then, heart pounding stupidly fast, he dropped down from the roof and landed in a light crouch on the Hawke family’s stoop. He was up and jogging away before he could regret running, not allowing himself the luxury of glancing back over his shoulder to see if Hawke stood there, watching him go.

But when he blinked his eyes shut…he could picture him silhouetted against the stars, a dark, broad-shouldered figure outlined by the vast Kirkwall sky.

 _Fool_ , Fenris whispered to himself, taking the corner at a rapid clip. _Fool. Fool. Fool._

Once he was out of sight, there was no invisible string tugging him back to Hawke’s side. He set his jaw and hurried, knowing he had to make up time if he wanted to see the plan that had begun formulating in his mind through. Fenris kept alert as he moved through the dark Lowtown streets, hyperaware of the roving gangs and groups of bandits, but also keeping a sharp eye open for a familiar bedraggled figure. When he spotted Anders half a street ahead, he picked up his speed, moving on near-silent feet at a steady run.

Near-silent. But not _perfectly_ silent. Not quiet enough to miss catching the mage’s attention.

Anders turned when he was still several yards away, swinging his staff with a flare of ice. Fenris dodged the spell that—credit where it was grudgingly due—Anders did not fully release, cursing darkly beneath his breath. 

“Do you greet everyone in such a way, _abomination_?”

Anders lowered his staff with a grimace, spell flickering, then dying out. “Only anyone fool enough to try to ambush me,” he muttered. Anders turned to continue trudging back to his hovel. Fenris hesitated, then grumbled to himself and fell in step. The other man glanced at him as Fenris moved alongside him, brows knit in visible confusion. “What?” he finally demanded when Fenris didn’t speak.

Maker, he wanted to snarl or swipe at him. It made his skin crawl, being so close to a demon-possessed mage. Even Danarius hadn’t been fool enough to open his body to a demon…spirit…whatever Anders wanted to call his passenger. Possession was possession, and if Fenris didn’t need something from the other man very, very badly, he would have rather cut off his own arm than ask a favor.

…he was nearly tempted to turn heel and give it up as a lost cause anyway. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, then stopped, picturing the way moonlight hit Hawke’s uplifted face. The peculiar softness in his grey eyes. The sweet dip of his lashes and the kissed-red fullness of his mouth.

 _Hawke_. He wasn’t asking a favor for himself; he was doing it for _Hawke_.

Still. That didn’t mean he had to like it. “You are…friendly with Hawke.”

“Aidan?” Anders said, and the way Hawke’s first name tripped so easily off his tongue nearly startled a growl out of Fenris. The hot lick of jealousy made his markings flicker a warning, but Anders just smirked—he had done it on purpose. “Of course. Of _course_ I’m friendly with Ai— Hawke,” he finished, when Fenris’s markings just flared brighter.

 _Smart man_. Fenris took a breath and forced his ruffled temper to calm. “You care about him. About his wellbeing.”

Anders stopped, swinging around to face Fenris with an incredulous expression. “What is this about?” he demanded. “Are you asking because— Are you _jealous_?”

Fenris didn’t reply.

Anders snorted, raking his fingers through his messy blond hair. He stunk of Darktown (though if Fenris were willing to be fair, he’d have to admit he didn’t smell like roses himself) and his sad feather paldrons ruffled on the tepid Lowtown breeze. When he turned his face away, his profile was framed bold and strong by the moonlight. Fenris might have thought him a handsome man if he didn’t despise everything he stood for. “I don’t believe this. No. No, I take that back: I _completely_ believe this. Only you would be stupid enough to think you had to ask a thing like that.”

He hunched his shoulders forward, immediately on the defensive—Fenris _hated_ being called stupid; hated even more the creeping suspicion that as a slave he was so poorly educated there was no way he could refute such a claim—but he kept his tongue as Anders continued. “He’s your _Voice_. Don’t you get what a powerful thing that is? What it means for him?”

Fenris waited, gritting his teeth and hoping Anders would continue, but the mage seemed to think he had asked a rhetorical question. Or maybe he just wanted to mortify Fenris by forcing him to admit his ignorance. It would be like the _abomination_ to do such a thing. “No,” he finally had to say, the word dragged out of him.

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is none of my business,” he muttered to himself, beginning to turn away. But he swung back just as suddenly, raising a hand. “No, you know what, it _is_ my business. Bethany Hawke was my Voice, and now that she’s dead, there is this…impossible hole inside of me that someone like _you_ could never understand. But someone like Aidan Hawke? He can. He’s a _good man_ , and he deserves more than whatever scraps you see fit to throw him, and if I can _throttle_ the understanding into you…”

He took a step forward but Fenris refused to back down, stepping in as well, bristling with temper. Blue-white light flickered around them, but it was impossible to tell whether they came from Fenris’s lyrium or Anders’s spirit passenger. “The moment he first found you in the Fade, his life was latched on to yours,” Anders said in a tight, harsh murmur. “Miserable as that may have made him all these years, futile as it may make any future happiness, _you_ in that moment became _everything_. You’re his only hope of living free of demons. You’re his shield, you’re his soul. Now that you’re in his life, he _can’t_ want anyone else. He won’t. You. Are. It. Being jealous of _me_ is like—”

Anders gave a sharp gesture and a laugh that sounded just shy of broken. For a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—Fenris almost felt _sorry_ for him. There was a fragile vulnerability to the way the mage held himself, as if fighting against the last bit of pressure that would send him shattering across the cobblestones. His voice had grown increasingly husky through his little speech, and the way he said Bethany’s name…

It made something inside Fenris curl dark and protective around the image of Hawke silhouetted by moonlight. The mere idea of something happening to Hawke made a part of him deep, deep inside start to howl with rage and fear.

“…it doesn’t matter,” Anders finished with a sigh. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Either you get it or you don’t. I’ll always be drawn to Aidan Hawke because there’s a spark of Bethany in him that I can’t not try to reach for. But you’re the biggest fool in Thedas if you think I could possibly do anything to tempt him away from you. For better or worse—and I’m betting worse—he’s yours. Maker take you.”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably, hands clenching and unclenching. “But you do care,” he repeated, dogged.

Anders sighed. “Yes,” he said. “He’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to her, he’s a _good man_ , and he’s my friend. Is that what you’re trying to needle out of me? That I want him? Well, I do. I want him the way I didn’t think I’d ever want anyone ever again. Maker, I would be his if I could.”

“Good.”

Anders startled, jerking his head up to stare at Fenris. “What are you,” he began, and his voice was so breathless he sounded as if Fenris had thrust his fist deep into his chest. “I. What.” He closed his eyes and drew in a long, fractured breath. It hitched painfully as he let it out, jagged as the edge of one of Isabella’s knives. “You asshole,” Anders murmured feelingly. “You— _Explain_.”

 _I would be his if I could_. There was a very large, very possessive side of Fenris that was hissing and spitting at the very idea, but he forced himself to move past that kneejerk jealousy. For now. “If you…love…Hawke, then you will do whatever you can to keep him safe,” Fenris said. “I want you to come on the Deep Roads expedition.”

Anders just started at him, eyes narrowed.

“He takes risks,” Fenris continued defensively. “He is not as careful as he should be. I will go to watch his back, and you will go to _heal him_ should anything get past me. You’ll do it because you care, and not because I asked you.”

“I didn’t exactly hear you _asking_ ,” Anders pointed out, but his shoulders had relaxed and there was a weary sort of acceptance in his voice. 

Fenris didn’t have to hear more to know Anders was on board. He gave a short nod and began to pull away.

“So essentially,” Anders said before he could turn away, “you’re going to use my…feelings for Hawke as a shield? Just so we’re on the same page.”

He’d stopped, back to the mage. Fenris clenched his fists and fought against the urge to… He wasn’t sure; he just knew every time he brushed up against the idea that Anders _wanted_ Hawke, a dark well of rage opened up inside of him. He struggled to conquer it again, swallowing. He had started this. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Anders gave a humorless laugh. “You are an incredible dick,” he said.

Fenris just shrugged a shoulder and hurried away. If he spent another moment in the _abomination’s_ company, he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened.

But as he vaulted up the steps toward Hightown and the ruined mansion he’d claimed as his own, the tension began to bleed from his form and his lips quirked into a small, wry smile. As miserable as it would be being Maker-knew-how-long trapped in the dank tunnels with the dwarf, the abomination, and the returning hordes of darkspawn, at least he could go on knowing he had done everything within his power—everything he possibly could—to protect the man he…

The man he…

…to protect _Hawke_ from harm.

And somehow, against all odds, against his very will, that had become more necessary to Fenris than breathing.


	25. Anders

To say that Carver was displeased at the news that he had been summarily displaced from the Deep Roads expedition would have been a gross understatement.

“ ** _WHAT?_** ”

His bellow echoed through the square, startling birds from precarious perches atop giant dwarven statues. It was early, daylight still soft and new, and the members of the small expedition were the only ones braving the Hightown dawn.

Bartrand and Varric and Aidan and Fenris. Carver and Leandra. The merchant Bodhan and his son Sandal poked through their wares as the hirelings finished re-packing the last of the supplies. Anders felt conspicuous amongst them, standing silent and useless as they moved with focused industry. A good score of men and women, weighed down with supplies that wouldn’t fit in the wagons, ready to delve into the Deep Roads and all the misery that came with it. Idiots, Anders decided wryly, one and all.

And he the biggest fool of the lot for agreeing to Fenris’s request. Maker, why had he said yes to the miserable elf?

He watched as Aidan ushered his red-faced brother aside, speaking to him in an urgent, low murmur. Anders could just hear one in a handful of words if he strained: _tried to convince Bartrand, take all three of you, please be reasonable, protect Mother_. All spoken in that low, unbelievably _kind_ voice that never failed to make his stomach flutter in combined misery and gratitude.

That, Anders reminded himself, heart giving a painful lurch. That was the reason he was here.

Some distance away, the elf looked up and shot a sour glare toward Anders from beneath a fringe of white hair, as if he could sense the direction of his thoughts. Anders deliberately turned his back on Fenris, edging closer to the Hawkes. Aidan was still making his measured argument, gesturing with his staff even as he dropped his voice even lower; Anders couldn’t make out his words now, even if he strained.

He had no trouble hearing Carver, however—and there was nothing kind about _his_ tone. “Oh shove off. I bet you just _jumped_ at the chance to replace me.” Carver shifted to stand to-to-toe with his older brother, bristling like a hedgehog. All that shiny steel plate armor refracted fitful light when he moved, sending beams of it streaking across the cobblestones. It was, Anders mused as the Hawkes fought, perhaps a good thing Carver wouldn’t be coming with them—the darkspawn would hear the clank of that armor echoing through every half-crumbling tunnel for _miles_.

“Junior’s not the only one surprised by the sudden change in roster.”

Anders curled his fingers around the heft of his staff and fought to keep the mild annoyance off his face. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Varric—they were friends, of a sort. It was just…he’d spent enough time around the dwarf to sense where this was going, and he was no in the mood to discuss it. Not so out in the open; not where Aidan could overhear.

“Things change,” he said, voice clipped—and there was no way he imagined that low chuff of laughter. Varric knew about Fenris’s request. He had to. And there was no way he wasn’t salivating for all the sordid details. “Look,” Anders began, swinging around to face him.

But Varric had both hands lifted in a wading gesture, mouth pulled into a crooked grin. “I may enjoy being around Hawke for front row seat to all the crazy that follows him around like a pack of starving mabari, but that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize what is clearly none of my business.”

Anders’ tense shoulders began to relax. Well this was a pleasant surprise. “Thank you, Varric,” Anders said feelingly.

“Besides,” Varric continued with a smirk, “that takes all the fun out of guessing what’s got the three of you hopping like the tile’s set to burn your feet. Rivaini and I have money riding on this, you know.”

And there it was. That was _much_ closer to what he had been expecting. “Yes, well,” Anders said, pinching the bridge of his nose. But he couldn’t help but join in when Varric began to chuckle. Maker, but his friends were assholes. “Thanks for that.”

“Any time, Blondie.”

The dwarf clapped him once, _hard_ , on the shoulder, then straightened. “Looks like the fight is finally breaking up. Be ready to roll out in five.”

Anders gave a brief nod, gaze dragging back to Aidan and Carver. Serrah Hawke— _Leandra_ —had joined them, and the three were talking in low, intense voices. Aidan reached out to clasp his brother’s shoulder, but Carver knocked his hand aside with a furious snarl and stalked away toward Lowtown.

The _clank clank_ of his armor followed him long after he was out of sight.

Aidan, for his part, looked troubled—his brows were drawn together in that way he had, and there was a _hurt_ in his eyes that made Anders’ heart twist unpleasantly. He began to move forward, wanting…he wasn’t sure; he only knew he couldn’t not respond…but he stopped when he realized Fenris had slunk closer as well.

No. No, of course—Fenris was Aidan’s Voice. All _he_ was feeling was the echo of Bethany in the other mage, and a desperate loneliness that howled like an archdemon in his chest.

_This isn’t real._

Anders drew in an unsteady breath and turned away, pretending to busy himself with his pack until Bartrand called out for the wagons to move. Even then, he kept his eyes downcast, suddenly unwilling to catch Leandra’s gaze by accident. He was touched by her attempts to adopt him, he really was…but right now, right here, he was feeling too conflicted, too aware that he was marching into terrible danger for a man who _wasn’t even his_ all on the bequest of another man he hated, and who hated him in return.

“When I put it that way,” Anders muttered beneath his breath, falling in step as the caravan began to press forward, “it sounds like a damned Orlesian ballad.”

One of the miserable ones, where no one got a happy ending.

The chantry bell was tolling the hour in the distance. Above, gulls circled lazily, calling out to each other as they caught the morning breeze. Aidan and Fenris were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, and Anders couldn’t help but notice the way their fingers almost but not quite brushed with each step, as if they longed to clasp hands; as if they didn’t dare. The tension hovering between them was palpable, even from two score steps away.

 _Well. That’s not going to become terribly awkward or anything,_ he thought dryly.

“HO, HAWKE!”

There was a sudden raucous cheer from somewhere up above them. Aidan turned, a startled grin spreading wide across his handsome face, and gave a wave. Following his line of sight, Anders spotted Isabela and Merrill and yes, even Aveline. They were perched on a high parapet looking down on the streets of Hightown. Aveline offered what Anders dearly hoped was an ironic salute. Merrill beamed and waved brightly. And Isabela?

Isabela turned and flipped up the long(ish) end of her tunic, preparing to give them all a rousing send-off that was all her own.

Aveline caught sight of her before she could tug down the thin scrap of her smalls, and even though Anders couldn’t hear them from where he stood, he’d been on enough circuits about Kirkwall and the Wounded Coast to be able to guess what Aveline was snarling as she grabbed for the pirate. Isabela just danced away, parroting back a jab of her own…and Merrill covered her face with a hand, features scrunched in a laugh.

Anders felt his own lips beginning to quirk into a reluctant smile. He shook his head, lifting his staff once in an ironic return salute as they wound their way out of Hightown, out of Kirkwall, away from the oppressive eye of its Circle and Chantry and desperate poor. Away from the terrifying question of the Qunari. Away from his responsibilities. His _duty_.

Away from the place that had, against all odds, become something of a home to him.

Each step, each creek of the wagon’s wheel, took them further and further away from Kirkwall…and closer and closer to the Deep Roads, and whatever was waiting there for them.

“May the Maker,” Anders muttered beneath his breath, refusing to let his eyes get drawn back to Aidan Hawke no matter how impossible he found it to resist, “watch over us all.”

The Maker, it seemed, had a terrible sense of humor.

“Do you see what I’m seeing?” Varric said, breaking the silence of the ancient thaig. His voice actually shook on the last word, quavering in a way Anders had never heard from the dwarf before. That was enough to catch his attention and draw him up the steps, even without Aidan’s surprised:

“Is that…lyrium?”

They were standing at an altar, staring down at a strange rose-colored idol. It was beautiful in its own way, Anders mused as he moved closer, and yet… There was a disturbing sheen to it, as if it were refracting more light than was to be had in the room. More than that, it made his mana _tremble_ in response, pushing and pulling within his blood like the moon to the tide. “It’s definitely magic,” he said. “And not the good kind.”

“There is no _good_ kind of magic,” Fenris growled from Aidan’s left. He shifted from foot to foot, dark brows pulled together in a fierce frown—and only the thought that Fenris’s lyrium markings may have been responding just as strongly as his mana to the idol was enough to keep Anders from snapping back.

Well, that and the beseeching look Aidan shot him.

Varric seemed more than willing to ignore the brewing squabble, as usual. “Doesn’t look like any kind of lyrium I’ve ever seen.” He half-turned toward where his brother had just entered through the chamber’s huge metal door. “Look at this, Bartrand. An idol made of pure lyrium…I think. Could be worth a fortune.”

Bartrand whistled. “You could be right. Excellent find.”

He sounded strange, strained. Anders frowned as he studied Bartrand’s face. There was a queer look in his eyes, visible even at this distance, and the way he held himself reminded Anders of the ancient statues that lined the path: frozen still. Waiting.

“ _Hawke_.”

Anders turned back sharply at the note of concern in Fenris’s voice. Aidan was standing before the altar—he was _reaching for the idol_ , and something in Anders flared in sudden panic. _No, don’t!_ he wanted to shout. He could feel the words caught in his throat, feel Justice trembling rising inside him like the crest of a wave—

And then Aidan closed his fingers around the idol and lifted it as if it were nothing but prettily carved stone. Anders slumped back with a huff of breath, hating the way his hands trembled. He shot a look at Fenris, who was visibly shaken—hovering behind Aidan as if he meant to rip the idol from his hands at the first sign of trouble.

Aidan studied the idol, then shrugged and passed it to Varric; Varric studied it with the same bemused detachment. Neither seemed affected by it at all. “Not bad,” Varric said. “We’ll take a look around. See if there’s anything further in.” He turned and casually tossed the idol down the steps toward his brother.

The moment the idol was out of reach, Anders felt his heart begin to slow. He took a shallow breath and passed a hand over his eyes. Thanks to that, he didn’t _see_ Bartrand’s treachery. Instead, he heard the heavy grind of metal and stone, followed by Aidan’s shocked, “The door!”

“Faste vas!” Fenris snarled, and Anders jerked his head up as his companions rushed past him just in time to see Varric’s brother—idol in hand, casting a strange reddish light over his craggy face—lock them into the vault.

“Bartrand!” Varric called as both Aidan and Fenris shoved at the door, fighting to wrest it open; it didn’t budge. “It shut behind you.”

 _He knows_ , Anders thought, following them down the steps at a slow, almost dreamlike pace. He could already tell that no amount of pushing or even _magic_ would open those doors. Not from this side. He was far enough away not to hear Bartrand’s response, but its effect was clear. Fenris bared his teeth on a snarl, Aidan reached a hand out to grasp Varric’s shoulder—and Varric pulled back from the door as if it had burned him, shock in every line of his compact body.

“Are you joking? You’re going to screw over your own brother for a lousy idol?”

He was close enough to feel the charge of Aidan’s magic now. It licked across his skin in something dangerously close to a caress. Fenris was lit with blue light, and in their center Varric was still shoving at the door as if he could pound his fists through the heavy metal all the way to wrap around his brother’s throat.

“Not just the idol,” Bartrand was shouting from the other side. “The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune. And I’m not splitting that three ways. Sorry, brother.”

“Bartrand!” Varric snarled, slamming his palm against the metal hard enough to send reverberations through the crypt. “Bartrand!”

Nothing. Bartrand was gone—and with him, their only hope of escape. 

Varric kicked at the door and turned away, snarling. “Oh, I swear I will find that son of a bitch—sorry mother—and I will kill him.”

“I will gladly hold him down for you,” Fenris muttered darkly, glaring daggers at the door. Aidan was already casting a searching glance about the crypt. Looking for a way out.

If there was a way out.

 _Maker_ , Anders thought as he met the other mage’s eyes, sharing the weight of silent terror as their companions bandied about all the ways they would flay Bartrand’s flesh from bones for leaving them to die, _let there be a way out of this._

There was a high dragon in the Deep Roads.

 _Why_ was there a high dragon in the Deep Roads?

“Suck on a fireball!” Anders yelled, spell flying from his fingertips. The dragon whipped its huge wedge-shaped head around with a rattling hiss and spat an answering fireball at him. Only Aidan’s barrier springing up light blue and remarkably comforting saved him from getting singed.

“Watch yourself, Anders!” Aidan called. He had sought higher ground, going around and behind the high dragon, up onto the dais. It made him an obvious target, but it also gave him what had to be a much clearer view of the flow of battle—and anyway, Aidan Hawke was the sort of mage who _preferred_ to get as close to the action as possible. The utter madman.

Anders took a breath and spun his staff as the fire melted harmlessly across the face of the shield. _He_ was a reasonable length-and-a-half away from claws and teeth, hovering near the opening to the chamber. Varric was making the dragon work for it, darting from one end of the huge open space to the other, firing off bolts in rapid succession. The sharp _twang_ of Bianca was underscored by Fenris’s snarls and the steady hack of his blade. Blood spattered the cobbles beneath him, and it was near impossible to tell in the flickering blue-white light whether he was injured or simply furious.

Both, Anders reasoned, and sent a healing spell his way…just in case. The fact that his efforts just earned him a murderous glare was only to be expected, really.

“Dick,” Anders muttered, using the brief respite provided by Aidan’s barrier to let his mana recharge. He mentally ran through the last buffs he’d provided, testing along the edges of his power to see how deep he was capable of digging. The dragon was heavily wounded though still deadly, its huge teeth flashing as it snapped at Fenris. Watching it glide huge yet impossibly graceful was awe-inspiring…not that Anders had time or attention to be awed. This creature was intent on killing them all.

And yet. Still. There was something beautiful in its fury.

 _Let’s end this_ , he thought, marshalling his strength to dig deeper.

“Duck,” Anders warned as he called up another fireball. Varric skittered around the edge of the cavern, Bianca giving a loud _twang_. Fenris was far too close to the creature’s underbelly, so Anders sent the ball of flame flying toward its face; he almost gave a weary laugh at the way it shook its head like Aidan’s big mabari. That bright, reckless mania that used to fill his chest (before he had given himself over to Justice and the grim determination of his cause) was a counter to the exhaustion trying to drag him down. He flung out his staff and practically _dared_ the high dragon to face him—teeth snapping, eyes blazing, muzzle twisting wide.

…and in that exact moment, Anders’ barrier fell. Because of course it did.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Anders gasped, scrambling back quick. He tried to throw up a barrier of his own, but his mana was too low—depleted by the war of attrition. He’d put everything he had into those last two spells, and it would be another few seconds before he had enough power to do anything at all; seconds in which he would be caught between razor-sharp teeth. Maker, why hadn’t he been more careful? He felt the hot, dank breath fluttering his robes as the dragon lunged for him, Justice flaring bright and hot and far too late in his chest.

All he could do was turn his face and _wait_ for agony.

But then there was an ear-splitting _crack_ of lightning, followed by the roar of a tempest that shook the ground beneath him. Anders staggered, barely catching himself against his staff, and stared as the dragon reared back. Its long neck wove in strange undulations as its wedge-shaped head thrashed back and forth. Powerful bolts of lightning danced across its tough hide, arcing to the stone and back again as if caught in a massive feedback loop. A safe distance away, Fenris hissed a soft cursed and stared—but not at the dragon.

Aidan, Anders realized, stomach clenching. He was staring at Aidan…who stood at the crest of the high dais, arms flung out, the center of a maelstrom.

 _Maker preserve us_ , Anders thought, fighting the instinct to flinch back. Stormclounds were crashing over the mage’s head, arcs of impossible power lancing out to slam into the high dragon’s bulk. Anders had spent much of his life in a Circle, studying magic beneath old fools and sycophants. He’d never seen this kind of power before, and for just a moment—just for a single, guilty breath—he understood why the Chantry was so afraid.

If Aidan Hawke could do _that_ without even the full weight of a bond behind him…what would he be capable of when Fenris finally relented?

Anders didn’t have time to hate himself for that moment of weakness, however—or the stunned lack of action that kept the three of them frozen. Kept Aidan vulnerable. Before he could even fully grasp the enormity of what was happening, the high dragon _roared_ and lunged for his attacker. It happened so fast, Anders just caught an impression of a striking snake; a flare of light; Fenris’s gutted cry.

And then the dragon was jerking its head, lightning singing between its massive jaws, _Aidan_ caught against the blooded spikes of its teeth as it shook him like a rag doll. The short staff Aidan used fell from frightening limp fingers, clattering to the ground so far below as the dragon snarled and sank his teeth deep into giving flesh.

“ _Aidan!_ ” Anders screamed, throwing out one hand, even as Varric yelled, “Hawke!”

Fenris just _snarled_ and flung himself at the beast, leaping with deadly grace onto the ridge of its tail and running up the knobs of its spine as it bucked and twisted and writhed. Fenris barely seemed to notice, preternaturally graceful—his face was twisted up in fury and his markings flickered in strobe-like effect, _blinding_ , as he crested the base of the monster’s giant skull.

Aidan was limp in its monstrous jaws, unresponsive even when Anders threw a healing spell his way…and the terror of that, the sheer force of his horror was echoed in the cry Fenris gave as he gripped his greatsword and brought it down _hard_ where the dragon’s neck met its skull.

Blood fountained and the dragon roared, jerking its head; Anders watched as Aidan was thrown, limp, lifeless, in a swirl of dark robes and dark hair and oh Maker, _Bethany_ , it was Bethany all over again. He nearly stumbled as he ran, uncaring of the danger. Fenris, the dragon—none of it mattered. The whole cavern could come crashing down and he _would not care_ , so long as Aidan Hawke lived.

This last connection, this last _thread_ to the woman he had never been allowed to love…he could not bear the thought of that, too, being taken from him.

Justice flared bright in his chest, for once in agreement. The power Anders felt was incredible, and he was already calling up another healing spell even as he crashed to his knees next to Aidan, hands moving over his insensate form, searching for…for a pulse and…and oh Maker he was…

Nothing, _nothing_.

“No!” Anders snapped, pushing Aidan onto his back and cupping the bloody line of his neck. Anders’s fingers swept over his skin, searching for the responsive throb of his heart, but he felt nothing at all—just soft skin and hot blood; it pooled around them in an ever-growing halo, seeping into his robes. Aidan’s face was very pale, blurred by Anders’ sudden tears. “No,” he whispered, pressing his fingers in tighter, searching, hoping. “No, Andraste take you, _no_.”

He dug deep, taking everything Justice had to give, everything his own spent body could conjure up, pouring it into Aidan…even as he slowly realized that it didn’t matter. The wound went too deep; if there was anything left of Aidan, it was too far away for him to reach.

He’d lost him.

Oh Maker, he’d lost him.

Anders muffled a broken noise—then hissed a shocked breath when he was suddenly jostled aside hard, catching himself on one palm. Fenris didn’t look at him, however—his fierce gaze was zeroed in on Aidan, blood-spattered features twisted up in something that hurt to see.

“Hawke,” Fenris rasped, cupping his Voice’s face between his palms. He leaned in, practically hunched over Aidan’s still form, and brushed his fingers oh-so lightly across his temple. The tenderness of that touch was its own sort of pain. “ _Hawke_. …Aidan, wake. You must wake.”

Fenris looked up suddenly, dark brows knit over glaring, tear-filled eyes. “Fix this, _mage_.”

“I can’t,” Anders said, and only Varric suddenly crouching between them, grabbing each of their shoulders in a steady hand kept Fenris from lunging for his throat. “I _can’t!_ ” he protested, flushed with rage and pain. “Don’t you think I would if I could? I don’t have that kind of power left, I— Not even _Justice_ can…”

Anders covered his face, hating the hitch of a sob that broke the words in his throat. He struggled to yank himself back together, but he could feel himself unraveling the way he had in the wake of Bethany’s death. That had shocked him to the core, had nearly ground him into dust. They hadn’t been joined, but he’d loved her _so much_ that losing her had been like cracking open the shell of his ribcage and carving out his own heart.

And now, this…

_Aidan._

“Try again.” Fenris’s voice was a rasp of itself—a lost, childlike pain threaded through those words, harsh enough that Anders flinched at the sound. He looked up to meet big green eyes over the body of the man they both loved, and for the first time, Anders felt a flicker of understanding spark between them.

Losing Bethany had been the start of a long, dark path that had led him to the Wardens, to Justice. Looking into Fenris’s eyes—into the gaze of an escaped slave with no memories, nothing of himself, nothing to brighten the edges of his dark life _but_ the gentle Voice who always gave and never took in return—Anders knew that this, this last blow, would be worse than anything he could imagine.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Anders said, reaching out. They had never been friends, they never would be friends, but in this moment, they fully understood each other. “I don’t have that kind of power.”

But Fenris just let out a harsh breath, Aidan’s head cradled so very gently on his folded knees, and reached to take Anders’s hand. When those looping markings lit, casting blue-white light over the macabre scene, Anders could feel the power of all that lyrium bleeding into him. Filling him to bursting.

“Try again,” Fenris said, and dropped his gaze to watch the man he loved.

Anders drew in a shaky breath, ticking his gaze up to meet Varric’s. The dwarf gave a little nod and stepped back, Bianca raised; he scanned the darkness of the cavern, the hulk of the dead dragon, the crumbling exits to the Deep Roads. He’d keep them safe while Anders…did his best.

Taking another deep breath, pulling on his mana, on the power Justice gave him, on those bone-deep lyrium marks, Anders cast a healing spell and poured everything he had into the unresponsive shell of Aidan Hawke’s body, determined that _this_ story, at least, would have a happier ending.

It went on and on and on for what felt like an age; the burn of his powers was an ache, then a terrible grind, but he held on and just. Kept. Healing. Digging in his heels and gritting his teeth and letting it all come tumbling out and crashing over Aidan. He was hyperaware of Fenris’s free hand brushing tenderly over Aidan’s face—smoothing back his hair, brushing blood from his cheeks, coaxing him back as if by his own sort of spellcraft. There had been no one to do that for Bethany Hawke; there had been no chance for her Voice to be by her side.

 _Not now_ , Anders thought, viciously bearing down—and nearly crying out when Aidan gasped and arched beneath the thrall of his powers, lungs filling at last with air.

Anders fell back, letting the spell die even as Fenris leaned in with a brokenhearted noise. He pressed his forehead to Aidan’s, white hair swinging forward. His hands moved restlessly, ghosting over his cheeks, his neck, across his chest where bone-deep wounds had been—feather-light, as if afraid his touch would bring pain.

“Aidan,” Fenris rasped, followed by a broken string of Arcanum.

Anders slumped by Aidan’s knees, one hand shakily brushing back his own hair as he watched Aidan’s eyes flicker open, his lips move. He couldn’t hear his response, but it carried the same Tevinter-flavored inflection—breathy and soft and more than a little dazed.

And then Fenris brushed their mouths together, light as a whisper, and Anders had to turn away or the tears gathering hot on his lashes would surely fall.

A big hand fell on his shoulder, and Varric squeezed gently. “Come on, Blondie,” he murmured, helping Anders to his feet. The whole world swayed, and his heart ached for what he could never be a part of, but at least…at least Aidan would survive. At least he’d managed that. “Let’s give them some privacy. May as well set up camp here tonight,” Varric added as they both gingerly limped away from the lovers—neither of whom seemed to even notice they existed. “Nothing’ll be stupid enough to stumble into a high dragon’s lair. Just us, right?”

It hurt to laugh, but it felt good, too. Cleansing. Anders pressed a hand to Varric’s shoulder and leaned against him, hobbling like an old man. He felt hollowed out, a husk of himself. He felt, weirdly, good. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at the huge bulk of the dead dragon and trying to ignore what its defeat had nearly cost. “What a bunch of idiots we are.”


	26. Aidan

_You are not permitted to die. I refuse to bear it._

The words had been husky, drenched in recent terror and near-crippling relief. Confused, swimming back from the precipice of someplace cold and dark and terrible, Aidan had allowed _those words_ , Fenris’s _voice_ , to lead him back into the world again. 

“Fenris,” he murmured, lashes flickering. It hurt— _everywhere_. His eyes burned with grit and his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. When he drew in a breath, his lungs ached. He let it out in a long hiss, squeezing his eyes shut…then went very, very still as Fenris brushed sword-calloused fingertips across his cheek.

He could count the number of times Fenris had reached for him on one hand—the number of times they’d touched at all on two. There was nothing in the Maker’s heaven or earth that could so easily unmake him as that single, tentative brush of fingers.

Aidan drew in a trembly breath and opened his eyes again. He was dimly aware of Anders and Varric somewhere nearby, but all he truly saw was Fenris leaning over him, silver hair tumbling forward in a messy sweep, dark brows drawn into an inverted V. Those gorgeous green eyes were fixed on his face, filled with…were those unshed _tears_?

The breathless shock at the sight was like pieces of a mosaic snapping firmly into place. The confused hum of his thoughts quieted as he read the entire story on his Voice’s uncharacteristically open face. He had nearly died; Fenris had been terrified in the face of that potential loss. Fenris… _cared_. He sat hunched over Aidan, hands cupping his jaw, tears trapped on his lashes—and he cared, he truly cared. 

Anders was still near. Varric. And yet Fenris just leaned closer, the ends of his hair sweeping oh-so gently along Aidan’s brow. Fenris did not seem to notice they had an audience. For at least this moment, in his fear and relief, it didn’t matter.

 _It’s all right_ , Aidan thought, searching those beautiful eyes and reading _so much_ there. His own heart tripped impossibly fast in his chest. _I won’t ever leave you_.

“Fenris,” Aidan murmured. He tried to reach up, but his limbs were still too heavy, uncooperative. He tried to give a reassuring smile, but his heart was pounding, and he felt… He felt breathless and confused and grateful and suddenly so very _happy_ he almost couldn’t hold it in. He had almost died, hadn’t he? Was it right to feel so stupidly happy after such a close brush with death?

He didn’t care. How could he care, when his Voice was looking at him like _that_?

“As you wish,” he said instead, instinctively switching to Arcanum, and, oh Maker, the look that swept over Fenris’s face as he leaned forward for a breathless, shaken kiss…

 _I love you_ , those green eyes said. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Aidan Hawke felt utterly at peace.

Now, hours later, he was curled on his side next to a small fire, shielded from the rest of the Deep Roads by the hulking corpse of the High Dragon. In the shadows, it seemed to slumber—spiked tail curved toward its body, one sharp-taloned claw splayed out. Aidan shivered when he tipped his chin and caught the gleam of firelight on a huge, exposed fang. The dragon’s jaws were thick with gore and drying blood; _his_ blood. Tattered shreds of his robe had been speared on the sharp peaks like a row of ragged banners.

_Maker._

Aidan squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of incredible pain…then let out an unabashedly happy noise when Fenris curled up tighter behind him, one strong arm slipping about his waist. Fenris’s hand splayed wide, palm pressed to Aidan’s stomach where the largest spike of the dragon’s maw had nearly split him in two. Somehow, with Fenris’s fingers gently rubbing through layers of cloth over the healed-tender gashes, Aidan could no longer remember just how badly it had hurt.

“Sleep,” Fenris murmured, words ruffling the dark curls at Aidan’s ear.

“ _You’re_ awake.” He turned his face, catching a brief flash of white out of the corner of his eye as Fenris shifted—then pulled him more firmly within the protective shell of his body. They were roughly of a height, Fenris’s knees tucked alongside Aidan’s, his hips square against Aidan’s backside. If he weren’t so bloody exhausted, he may have found the position exhilarating.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite right. He was bloody exhausted and he _still_ managed to find the position exhilarating…just perhaps not as arousing as he might have otherwise.

Fenris let out a chuff of breath. “ _I_ did not throw myself into a dragon’s jaws today,” he pointed out.

“No,” Aidan said, “but you did throw yourself under its heavy hindquarters. Or do you think I somehow missed the way you were practically daring it to trample you?”

“Not all of us have lightning bolts to fling about, _mage_.” The words were sharp and bitter, but Fenris’s voice was like a purr. He pressed closer, breath hot against the back of Aidan’s neck, and pressed an unexpected kiss to the tangle of hair at the base of his skull. The tip of Fenris’s nose brushed down the line of his neck as if he were counting the knobs of his spine, and…

And maybe he wasn’t so tired that arousal was completely out of the question. His skin felt too-small for his body and he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs with a deep enough breath. Gooseflesh shivered across his limbs and _Fenris’s breath was hot against his neck_.

Maker. He would court death every day if it meant feeling those hands, that mouth, on him.

Aidan cleared his throat. “I just wanted to be sure you were safe,” he said, voice suspiciously husky. “I…” Maker, how to say it without sounding the complete lovelorn fool? He fumbled for the right words. “I do not like the thought of you injured. I don’t think I could stomach…seeing you hurt.”

Fenris all at once went very still. So still, so quiet, Aidan could hear nothing but the racing of his own heart. And then Fenris was pulling away, moving up onto an elbow to _glower_ down at him. Aidan turned onto his back, blinking up at his Voice; so much for finding the right words.

“Fenris,” he began softly, ever the peacekeeper.

“Do you think _I_ am willing to bear it more than you?” Fenris demanded.

Aidan winced.

“Do you think this is somehow easy for me? Do you think I saw you in that _thing’s_ jaw and felt nothing?” There was real anger laced through his words, and pain. It was the pain that had Aidan reaching for him despite Fenris’s warning hiss; he barely skimmed his palm along the sharp jaw before Fenris was furiously knocking his hand away. “Or do you think that because you are the one who remembers how it started, that I am not under the same compulsion as you?”

 _Fuck._ He closed his eyes and drew in a stuttery breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. “Fenris,” Aidan began again. He blinked open his eyes, hating the reflexive hurt he felt at those words. He was trying _so hard_ not to flinch away from the things Fenris sometimes said, but there was a wide gulf between understanding why he said them and being able to hear them without pain. “It’s not a…a compulsion. It’s not…”

He fumbled for more, but he was too worn out, too broken down to find the words. Aidan slid a hand against the cold stone floor to lever himself up—he had to be able to see Fenris’s face for this; had to be on the same level—but Fenris sucked in a furious breath and pressed a palm against his chest, _pushing_ him back down.

And yet what could have been a violent gesture was softened immediately by Fenris’s other hand darting out to cup the back of Aidan’s skull, his fingers sliding through a mass of dirty black curls as he followed Aidan down. Back curved over him protectively, face close, eyes searching his face again as if looking for answers Aidan didn’t know how to give.

He would. Andraste take him, he would, he would give anything, if he only understood what Fenris needed to hear.

Instead, he tried a joke. “You know, it’s going to get really awkward for everyone at the Hanged Man if you decide you have to keep me swaddled against your breast like a babe.”

“You are ridiculous,” Fenris snapped, and chased the words with a kiss.

 _Maker_ , there was nothing that could so easily derail Aidan’s thoughts. He made a low noise, trapped in his chest, and craned closer—tried to take more. He was greedy for it, entire body unfolding like a flower at the first touch of rain. Fenris’s lips moving over his, Fenris’s fingers tangling tight in his hair, Fenris’s breath across his mouth, and Fenris’s _tongue_ dipping in almost shyly, brushing against his own. He tasted sour from days of being trapped in the Deep Roads with nothing but stale water and spit to freshen his breath, and Andraste take him, but Aidan had never wanted anything more. He made a noise lost somewhere in Fenris’s mouth and surged up into the kiss, tongue slicking deep—deeper, _deeper_ , letting the elf swallow each breath with a shocky sort of joy.

His lungs felt too tight and his head was swimming and _Fenris was kissing him_ with a ferocity that he felt down to his toes. It arced through him like a lightning chain, and somewhere deep inside his chest, Aidan could feel his magic begin to respond.

_Hungry._

Fuck, his magic, his body, his everything was so _hungry_ for Fenris. He moaned and swiped his tongue deep into Fenris’s mouth before teasing back, nearly breaking the kiss—letting Fenris chase him with a low growl.

That noise went straight to his cock; he was straining against his bloody and tattered robes, hips moving restlessly. This wasn’t… He hadn’t had this but for a few times in his life. The first time he had kissed Leto in their shared dream marked the _last_ time he’d given even a small part of himself to anyone. Despite others’ suggestive smiles and quirked brows and occasional wandering hands, Aidan had made a promise to Leto in the Fade—

_I am yours_

—and he had never broken it. And now, _now_ …arching up into Fenris’s body, blood thrumming with incredible heat, need was a living thing inside his chest. He fought to swallow back a moan when Fenris shifted over him, the lithe weight of him pressing down just enough to make him think he really would go mad from wanting, needing…

“Fenris,” Aidan murmured into the hot, slick tangle of their kiss. And: _Leto_ , echoing through his thoughts as he swept trembling hands down Fenris’s sides.

There was a sudden hitch of Fenris’s shoulders, then the heady ice-cold-burn of lyrium as his markings triggered. Aidan broke the kiss on a gasp, tipping his face to watch the eerie glimmer of blue-white light surrounding them, flickering madly against his fingertips.

Fenris drew in an unsteady breath as Aidan traced a glowing swirl; the light pulsed.

“Does it hurt?” Aidan said.

“It…should.”

That wasn’t an answer. At least, it wasn’t _enough_ of an answer. Aidan drew his hand back, unwilling to risk it—but Fenris simply hissed in annoyance and snagged his wrist none-too-gently. He squeezed, elegant fingers curled around Aidan’s broad palm, then drew him back to the bare expanse of his skin.

Aidan made a low, questioning noise, fingers very carefully sliding along Fenris’s bicep. He could feel his own powers responding, feeding on the elf’s proximity hungrily—like his body, like his mind, like everything, _everything_ about him.

Just…soaking Fenris in with a desperation that left him breathless and shaken.

“Fenris,” Aidan whispered.

Fenris snagged his chin and lifted Aidan’s face roughly toward his own. “You talk too much, _mage_ ,” he snapped, but when he brought their mouths together, the kiss was shattering in its gentle intensity. Aidan sank back into it as if…Maker, as if he didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need to think, didn’t need anything but this. There was a danger in walking in the Fade, his father had once told him. The mage was aware where the average dreamer was not; the mage could shape his world in a way that made him feel like nothing else mattered.

It was easy to become lost, to think this world of dreams was better than reality. Aidan had never once felt that temptation in the Fade; ironically, it was here, trapped in the Deep Roads where they were almost certain to die, tipping his head to give Fenris more of him—all of him—as fingers dug back into his hair, gripped his hip…now, here, he understood the temptation to throw everything away for a single moment.

 _Fenris_ , he thought, palms brushing over the swirling, flickering marks, hips moving up just as Fenris’s began to press down, stumbling into a growing rhythm that felt more right than anything in his life. His blood was alive with it, and fuck, he could feel Fenris’s cock pressed hard against his own, could feel the building desperation in the other man; his body strained for _more_.

—and then a sudden _crash_ startled them apart, and the perfect moment was over.

Fenris jerked up onto his haunches, grabbing for his giant sword. Aidan lay sprawled beneath him, panting for breath—stunned and _hard_ and thrumming even as he mentally fumbled for that magic welling up inside him.

Across the small fire, Varric hid a laugh in a cough and Anders was turning bright red. _Redder_. He stooped to pick up his dropped staff and muttered something beneath his breath.

Varric doubled over, a fist over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Fenris settled down again, but this time a little farther from Aidan. His own cheeks flushed, eartips going pink. “Festis bei umo canavarum.”

Aidan pushed himself up onto one elbow. “If it helps,” he said quietly, “I don’t think Anders _meant_ to interrupt, ah, anything.” He couldn’t stop the quirking smile tugged out of him by Fenris’s dirty look. “Not that I’m suggesting there was anything he was _interrupting_ of course.”

Then, in an effort to make Fenris laugh away the sudden prickly annoyance, Aidan waggled his brows.

It was a gamble, but one that paid off. Fenris’s dark brows jerked together hard—but then he gave a little, huffing breath. His laughs were rare and raw, like he wasn’t used to being amused; he quickly covered it up with a cough of his own, lashes flickering as he dropped his eyes away. But he _had_ laughed, and that was its own sort of triumph.

Aidan began to lever himself up farther, pleased…only to sink down again at the sudden glare Fenris shot his way. “All right,” he said quickly. The hard rocks dug against his back and the big, dark, oppressive weight of the Deep Roads felt a thousand times less pleasant without Fenris curled against his back. He pillowed his head on one arm and watched Fenris’s face with what he hoped was a welcoming expression.

He certainly _felt_ welcoming.

But Fenris had turned away, attention trained on the high dais where the dragon had been nesting before they’d stumbled in. He scanned the corners, then twisted to look over the bulk of the dragon toward the entrance to the cave. The relaxed, easy set of his shoulders was gone, and while Aidan knew it was childish of him to want to draw back Fenris’s undivided attention, he couldn’t seem to help stretching out one foot and nudging Fenris’s calf with his toes.

“Hey,” he murmured, smiling hopefully at his Voice’s arched brows. “We still have a few more hours of sleep before we should move out.”

 _Join me_ , he couldn’t say. He knew Fenris well enough by now to know where the boundaries were. _If I’m going to die down here, I want to steal as much time in your arms as I can._

Fenris cleared his throat and stood, head tilted away from Aidan as if he could read his thoughts. Who knew—maybe he could. “Yes,” Fenris said, voice husky. “And you should sleep. I will…keep watch.” He bent to snag his giant sword, hoisting it easily onto his back. The flare of the lyrium had died down again, but to Aidan, he still seemed to glow in the fickle firelight.

He watched as Fenris padded over to the fire to say something to Varric—who just smirked and waved him off, as if to say, _Be my guest_. Anders didn’t look up, not even when Fenris stopped by his shoulder. Fenris glanced back, casting Aidan a final quick glance…then leaned in closer and said something that had Anders twisting to stare up at the elf.

 _Uh-oh_ , Aidan thought.

Fenris jerked his chin, eyes narrowing, before giving Anders a pointed look. Anders clambered up, mouth opening in protest, but Fenris just sneered and turned away, stalking out into the heavy darkness.

Aidan was scrambling up immediately, heart lurching. “Fenris,” he began to call, cold dread crashing over him. Anders cursed and hurried over before he could get more than a knee beneath him; his long, capable fingers were gentle as he caught Aidan’s bicep and tried to urge him back down.

“Aidan, please,” he said.

“But,” Aidan protested, fighting off his friend’s grip, “Fenris—”

Anders sighed. “ _Isn’t going anywhere_. He’s just checking the perimeter. Now would you stop squawking and _sit down?_ I’m under strict orders to check you over. Apparently,” he added in a waspish tone, settling into a crouch, “I am not pulling my own weight. This is ignoring, the fact, that I literally pulled you back from the brink of death. But let’s just ignore that fact, right? When it’s _convenient_ , anyway.”

He kept pushing at Aidan’s shoulders until Aidan allowed himself to be settled back again—Anders muttering to himself as his hands began to glow a serene blue. The cool rush of healing magic shivered through him.

Fenris wasn’t leaving, he told himself firmly, staring up at the stalactites pointing down at them like rows of crooked swords. He was coming _back_.

“…don’t know what you see in that damned ill-tempered _ass_.”

Aidan turned his head to look up at Anders, lips quirking despite himself. Strands of dirty blond hair were falling into the healer’s face and his jaw was dark with bristles. He looked exhausted and filthy and…and like he’d been trudging for what felt like an age through the bloody Deep Roads. Aidan couldn’t imagine he looked any better. “He’s my Voice,” he said. It was the simplest and truest answer.

Anders snorted. “Yes, well,” he said. “He’s still an ass.”

“Yes, _well_ ,” Aidan teased gently. “I’m pretty sure that could be said of the rest of us, too.”

He’d meant it as a joke, wanting more than anything to help break up the tension between Fenris and the man who _should_ have been his brother, if Fate hadn’t been unkind enough to take Bethany from them. But Anders just paused, brows pulling together…and when he looked at Aidan, there was no laughter in those whiskey-brown eyes.

There was something…something else, something deeper, something that made him deeply uncomfortable to see.

“Anders,” Aidan began, wanting to cut whatever Anders had to say off at the pass.

But Anders just shook his head. “You’re not,” he said. There was a wealth of meaning to those words, to the way he gently passed his hands over Aidan, healing him of every last remaining hurt; literally bleeding his strength into him. “The rest of us, maybe. But not you.”

 _Maker_. What a mess.

“Anders,” he said again, gently catching Anders’ wrist. He squeezed once before pushing his hands aside, sitting up. Anders took the hint and let his spell die. He sat back on his heels, hands dangling between his knobby knees. In the flickering firelight, his cheeks looked very gaunt, his shoulders sharp and frail. “…thank you,” Aidan added, not sure what else to say. What else _was_ there to say?

This isn’t real?

You don’t really love me?

I’m not a replacement for Bethany?

Maybe Anders did need to hear all of that. But if they were going to die down here, Aidan didn’t want it to be with any hard truths between them.

“Thank you,” he said again, giving Anders a crooked smile. He levered himself up onto his feet, feeling much stronger now—surely able to carry his own weight as they fought their way through to the surface. He reached down to squeeze Anders’ shoulder, deeply uncomfortable with the way the other man leaned hungrily into the touch, as if starving for that brief moment of contact. “You are a very good friend.”

Anders went still…then laughed. It wasn’t a very nice laugh.

 _You need to figure this out before everyone gets hurt_ , Aidan told himself, letting go. He fought to keep the worry off his face, though, pretending he didn’t understand the hurt-bitter undercurrents zipping between them. For now, the only thing he _could_ do was pretend.

“Yeah,” Anders said, shakily rising to his own feet. His eyes skated away from Aidan and toward the fire. “That’s me—your friendly Darktown mage.”

Aidan winced internally, but he forced himself to smile and bump their shoulders together the way he would do with Isabela. Varric. Aveline. Merrill. _Any_ of their shared group of friends. _I love you_ , he thought, stomach twisting tight and unhappy. _Just not the way you’ve convinced yourself you want me to_. “Come on,” he said, heading toward the fire. “Let’s see if we can’t work out our next move. If we want to get out of here alive, we need to have a better plan.”

That, it turned out, was easier said than done. Because the only thing they anticipated _less_ than a high dragon?

A _rock wraith._

“Well,” Aidan said, staring up at the creature as it reformed out of energy and rock and a deep, yawning well of _hunger_. “I can officially say it now: I _hate_ the Deep Roads.”

Varric just scoffed; Anders gave a shaky laugh. Fenris drew his sword, edging to put himself between Aidan and the demon, which would have been sweet if it hadn’t meant Fenris now _standing between him and a demon._

 _We’re not going to die here_ , Aidan told himself, drawing on his deep wells of power as the rock wraith lashed out; lashing _back_ with everything he had. _Not if we have to fight our way past a horde of demons. Not if we have to cut our way through a broodmother._

He shuddered at _that_ thought, mentally shying away even as he readied his next spell. Varric was shooting a volley of bolts and Anders was yelling something that sounded very much like, “Suck on a fireball!” Fenris growled and swung his sword.

_Please Maker let there not be a broodmother._

_Please, please, please._

There wasn’t a broodmother.

What they found instead—after they dug themselves out from the long and bloody battle with the wraith—was a pile of treasure, a surprising amount of loot, and a _key_.

“A key?” Varric said. “The kind that opens doors, I hope.”

“Maybe _this_ door?” Aidan added, pointing. He was leaning against his staff, pretending to feel the pain less than he actually did…though he could feel Fenris’s eyes on him anyway.

And Anders’.

 _Maker_.

Varric shrugged. “Worth a try,” he said. They loaded themselves down with the best of the loot and tested the key. It slid into the lock without protest. As the tumblers turned and the door swung open, Aidan felt the first breath of hope he’d had in what seemed like forever. They stumbled out into what was clearly one of the main roads, its high arching ceilings and crumbling pathways oddly…familiar.

Maybe.

Oh, void take him, pretty much all of the Deep Roads looked alike to him.

“Hm,” Varric said, studying it. That sounded hopeful. Then a slow smile began to spread across his face, and Aidan’s shoulders relaxed. “I’d say this is our way back.”

 _Thank the Maker._ “How long to get back?” Aidan asked, too relieved to question how Varric knew. He was more than happy to chalk it up to some sort of dwarven sixth sense or something.

“If we’re unlucky? Maybe a week.”

“And if we’re lucky?”

Varric just snorted. “We stumble over Bartrand’s corpse on the way. Come on.” He tipped his head toward the wide, ancient road spread out before them—the road that would, with any luck, see them _home_ —and lead the way.

Anders shook his head and followed. Aidan watched them both, letting them get a little ahead before he began to carefully hobble after. He’d been struck multiple times by beaming white light that shot from the wraith with enough power to rattle his bones. His skin felt like old parchment stretched tight over his frame.

Fenris fell in step beside him. “You are injured,” he murmured.

Aidan didn’t look at him. “So are you. So are Varric and Anders.”

“The healer—”

“Doesn’t have enough mana left to take care of himself,” Aidan interrupted. “Much less the rest of us. Give it time, Fenris: Anders will see to us the moment he can. Until then, I’m just going to be grateful we all made it this far alive.”

Fenris grunted and said no more. But he kept his pace slow enough to remain at Aidan’s side, and every now and again, when his arm swung…their knuckles brushed in what had to be a deliberate caress.

Aidan snuck a quick glance at Fenris and found dark green eyes on him; Fenris quickly looked away. Cleared his throat.

And Aidan? Aidan slowly began to smile.


	27. Carver

He was afraid to go inside.

Carver stood in the shadow of a Lowtown alleyway, watching the door to his uncle’s home. His stomach twisted into hard, unpleasant shapes and there was a part of him—a part he was ashamed of; a part he would _never_ admit to—that wanted to run away before he could risk his mother seeing him like this.

See him dressed in full Templar armor.

“Maker damn my hide,” he muttered, shifting awkwardly beneath the weight of full plate. He’d gone over the arguments in his head so many times he could recite them by memory…so many times that he was no longer certain which he believed and which he said simply because he didn’t want to risk his own family looking at him with hatred in their eyes.

 _Something had to be done_ , Carver thought, biting at the inside of his mouth. _If Aidan… When Aidan comes back from the bloody Deep Roads, all eyes will be on him. Money may not be enough to save him from the Circle._

 _I’m his brother._ He drew in an uneven breath. _I’ve watched over him all my life._ Let it out shakily. _Whether he wants me to or not, I…love him, and I want to protect him. No matter the cost._

It was a pretty speech. No doubt Mother would be touched by those words; she always did like to think her children knit together into some cohesive whole. Aidan and Bethany and Carver: the Hawke children. Mother didn’t like to admit that Aidan and Bethany were close, were _special_ , while Carver…

Well. Carver knew what he was.

He was _the other Hawke boy._ But now? Now he was a Templar. And that was his other, less pretty, less _touching_ reason for being here staring helplessly at his uncle’s hovel. It was all very well to say he was sacrificing himself to protect the family—and that was, in part, the truth. But that wasn’t the whole truth, and Carver couldn’t lie to himself about it. Not now. Not when he was fighting so hard to be his own man.

The _additional_ truth was that he was so damn tired of being the ordinary one that he would claw his way through the bloody void to have someone, anyone, look at him the way they routinely looked at Aidan. He could be a hero too, damn it, if anyone ever gave him the chance.

“Selfish cur,” he muttered, rubbing a gauntleted hand over his face. And, because nearly a half hour had passed with him just _standing_ there trying to find the strength to go to his mother and admit he had willingly sworn himself to the very men who had been hunting her husband, her favorite children all her life: “Coward. _Coward._ ”

That was enough to propel him forward, armor clanking, jaw set. He spotted a neighbor stepping out on her stoop and immediately slip back into the house at the sight of him, afraid. _That_ was another argument for why he had to do this. The Templar order should not be the corrupt, brute force it had become in Kirkwall. Working alongside his brother, delving deep into the city’s underbelly, Carver had seen both mages and Templars alike using their gifts to hurt, to conquer, to betray. That _wasn’t how it was supposed to be_. Templars should have been the shield between Circle mages and the world—not just protecting the people from magic, but protecting mages from anyone who would do them harm.

From what he had seen, the Kirkwall Circle could use a few more Templars willing to be that shield instead of the sword.

And, _balls_ , that wasn’t going to be enough to keep Aidan from hating him for this.

“One foot in front of the other,” he murmured as he climbed the steps to his uncle’s door. He could hear voices from within, and Trouble’s occasional low bark. Uncle Gamlen and Mother were home, then. “You can see this through.”

He took another deep, fortifying breath…and pushed open the door.

The morning had stretched into late afternoon, Mother’s arguments now as familiar as his own. She had cried at first. Maker, how he _hated_ to see her in tears.

“It’s all right,” he’d tried to soothe her again, but she wouldn’t be comforted. She _couldn’t_. 

“Bethany’s gone, and Aidan has yet to return; am I to lose you too?” she pleaded for what had to be the hundredth time. Carver winced, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from promising he would stay—it was impossible seeing her in so much distress without wanting to somehow _fix it_.

“Mother,” he said helplessly.

“I can’t lose all of my children. I _can’t_.”

 _You’re not losing me_ , he thought desperately, but the words stuck in his throat. He glanced toward Gamlen, but his uncle just crossed his arms and shook his head, leaning back against the grubby wall of his hovel. Trouble whined and would not lift his head. He was on his own here—it seemed he always ended up on his own—and he _had_ to make her understand.

“I will still be in Kirkwall, Mother,” he said. “I’m not _going_ anywhere. But I’m a man now. I need to be able to be somewhere I can feel like one. Where I can actually feel like I’m doing good on my own.”

She looked up, eyes glassy with tears. Maker, it made his stomach lurch to see her cry. After so many _bad years_ …after the loss of Leto, after Father’s death, after Bethany…the sight of anyone’s tears left him feeling anxious and shaken inside. Like it was up to him to find a way past all that pain and toward some resolution.

He’d never cried his own tears. Curled on his cot, young and afraid, he’d been chased into dreams night after night by the quiet rasp of his mother’s sobs; the low, broken sound Aidan made when he drifted into Voiceless sleep; the frightened, whispered prayers of his sister, and the impossible grey pall that settled over everyone, everything.

There’d never been time for him to cry; and now that he had nothing but time, he wasn’t sure he remembered how.

“Look,” Carver began, struggling to find a way to make this right. “Mother, it really is going to be—”

He was interrupted by the scrape of the door opening. A hot breeze tumbled in, bringing with it the dank stench of Lowtown. Trouble immediately bounded to his feet, barking high and joyful, and Mother gasped in a tremendous, grateful breath.

Aidan. He didn’t even have to look to know it was _Aidan_.

“Hey, boy,” Aidan laughed, crouching to wrap his arms around Trouble’s neck. Mother was already stumbling toward her favorite son, tears coming harder now. She fell into his arms just as he straightened, grey head bent, pale hands clinging to his travel-and-blood-stained robe as if she would never let go. As if, now that Aidan were here, every fear she’d had would fade and the world would go to rights again.

As if she trusted Aidan to put _Carver_ to rights again.

As if Aidan had ever had that power.

Carver cleared his throat, meeting his older brother’s eyes. “So you’re back,” he said.

“I’m back,” Aidan said quietly. He lifted a hand to cup the back of Mother’s head, holding her so very gently even as his eyes dropped down Carver’s armor. Carver felt an uncomfortable trembling deep in his belly at the look on Aidan’s face, in his _eyes_ when they met his again.

There was no anger there. No recriminations. But the hurt was deep and old and _aching_ , cutting him down to the bone. “Carver,” Aidan said, voice dropping so low in his exhaustion that he almost sounded like Father, “what are you wearing?”

 _I’m sorry_ , he almost shouted, flinching away from those eyes—grey-blue and endless, like the Waking Sea itself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to already be at the Gallows; Aidan was supposed to return too late to stop him. He’d had a letter he’d meant to leave with Mother. In it, he’d laid out all those arguments for why he _had_ to do this, why it _had_ to be now, before Aidan returned either triumphant or defeated. Why he loved his brother—loved him the way he’d always loved them all; down to the very core of him—and _that_ was why he had to get away.

Before this bitterness inside broke him apart. Before they all realized he could no longer protect his family where he was; that living here in Lowtown, Aidan no longer needed his protection.

 _I have to have a purpose, or it doesn’t mean anything_ , he’d wanted that carefully penned letter to convey. _At least with the Templars, I will always be one step ahead of anyone who would try to do you harm._

_I will never, never let anyone hurt you, Brother. Not even myself._

But now, of course, Aidan was looking at him and all those pretty, heart-felt words were flying out of his head. Instead Carver tightened his jaw and snapped, “I’ve joined the Templar Order. There’s no point in trying to talk me out of it: it’s done.”

Mother pulled away, swiping at her face. He couldn’t look at her. “But Carver, your _brother_ is an apostate. Your sister. Your— _father_. Oh, Carver, how could you?”

He closed his eyes against the accusation in hers. “I can do… I’ll be able to… I’m not…” _Damn it_ , the words just kept piling up in his throat, tripping off his tongue as he struggled past that impossible ache in his chest. She didn’t understand, and he wasn’t sure what else he could say to _make her_ understand. “Father was friends with a Templar,” he finally managed. “Ser Carver. He wouldn’t… He’d understand.”

“No he—” she began hotly, but Aidan dropped a gentle hand to her arm, his eyes on Carver.

Mother went silent. Of course, _of course_ she did. Maker forbid she ever think Carver could forge his own path, but perfect Aidan could bloody well say or do anything and she would follow blindly along.

He crossed his arms, the pain beginning to bubble up hot, turn into a blaze. He tried to grasp hold of that feeling, desperate to stay in control. It made him more than ready to throw down with his damn holier-than-thou brother for once and for all.

But Aidan? Aidan was just watching him, hurt slowly transforming into a slow, aching understanding that made Carver want to turn his face away in shame. “Carver,” Aidan said, cutting straight through to the point. “Do you actually _want_ to be a Templar?”

He swallowed, the sudden rage cooling as if Aidan’s words were one of his spells. He closed his eyes. “I want to be someone,” Carver admitted. It hurt to say the words, but he supposed Aidan had earned them. Maybe they both had earned them. “More than just your brother. This is my chance.”

“You _are_ more than just my brother,” Aidan protested, but Carver waved off his words. How could he ever hope to make Aidan understand what it was like to be the ordinary one? With his powers and his deep connection to Father and Bethany and his Elvish soul mate and his bloody destiny; the world bent around Aidan, and he didn’t even see it.

Stumbling six steps behind him, fighting desperately to keep him safe? Yeah, Carver couldn’t see anything _but_.

“I’m glad you think that,” he said, not meaning it to sound as dismissive as it did. Then Carver sighed. “I have to go.”

Mother caught his arm before he could get more than a few steps toward the door. “Carver, please. The Order is so dangerous,” she said.

He closed a hand gently over hers. “I’ll be fine, Mother. You don’t need to worry about me.” Then he looked up to meet his brother’s eyes again. “And you don’t need to worry about me turning you in,” Carver murmured quietly. “I know the value of family.”

“I know you do,” Aidan said. He stepped forward, scanning Carver’s face as if searching for something; Carver almost pulled back, but at the last minute he pushed forward instead, pulling his older brother into a sudden, _fierce_ hug. Aidan wrapped one hand tight around the back of Carver’s neck and dropped their foreheads together, holding on just as fiercely, and in that moment…

In that moment, Carver’s eyes began to burn with unshed tears.

“You’ve always protected us,” Aidan murmured, words trapped between them—something secret, something special, just for the two of them. “And I’ve always been so fucking grateful for you. I love you, little brother.”

 _Fuck_. Carver hitched a breath, tears beginning to spill, and pulled back sharply. Aidan, his mother, Trouble and Gamlen…the whole sad little _hovel_ blurred. “Yes, well,” he said, voice shaking. “Same to you, big brother. Even though you are _the worst_.”

Aidan laughed and dashed at his own tears. “That’s me,” he said. “The actual worst. There’ll always be a place for you, when you want to visit,” he promised. “In the old Amell estate. It’s part yours, after all. And I’ll see you in the Gallows.”

“Not too often,” Carver warned. “And not with…with Merrill, or Anders. You take too many risks.”

“Life itself is a risk.” Aidan lifted his hands at Carver’s flat look. “I promise. I’ll be careful. We’re moving up in the world, Carver. All our lives are going to get better from this moment forward; you’ll see.”

He sniffed, trying (and failing) to dash away those damn annoying tears. “Yes, well,” he muttered. “It had to happen eventually. I will see you, Aidan. Mother.”

“Carver,” both said. Aidan wrapped a supportive arm around Mother’s shoulders, pulling her close, and Carver took that as his cue to leave. The first step was shaky, but the second was steadier, and the third steadier still, until he was able to stride out of the Lowtown hovel where he’d spent the last year and a half of his life and out toward an uncertain future. On his own.

 _Maker_ , Carver thought, squaring his shoulders as he made his way out of Lowtown toward his new home in the Gallows, _keep them safe or you’ll answer to me._

The Maker, as always, had nothing to say in return.

But life continued nevertheless. The sky was filling slowly with stars; a wind picked up, blowing wild strands of his dark hair. All around him were shouts and laughter and arguments and merchants hawking their wares. Kirkwall wasn’t supposed to be their home, but somehow, the three of them had found themselves here. Maybe they’d even found their destiny.

And as he walked through the gathering gloom, aware of eyes on him—on him, not Aidan; _him_ —slowly, quietly, like pieces of a façade breaking up and crumbling into the sea…Ser Carver Hawke began to smile.

**END PART TWO**  



	28. Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note! The story is going to diverge from the canon timeline, with some events getting smushed together and others subtly changing. I just couldn't make those huge three-year jumps work, so I'm going as vague as possible about how much time has passed since the Deep Roads. You'll also notice Aidan has a housemate that wasn't in the game. Little details like that will be changing along the way.

  
_“The treasure we found in the Deep Roads made us a fortune. The Champion moved up in the world: literally. Bought a mansion in Hightown. Everyone knew who he was now. Even the Viscount was taking notice. But all that time later, the Qunari still hadn’t left. They insisted they were waiting for their ship…but some of us knew better.”_  
— **Varric Tethras** , from Act II of the Champion of Kirkwall

He had the crowd eating out of his hand.

This, Varric mused, was the best part of his day. This was what _he_ would be remembered for—perched on a rickety old chair in the Hanged Man, spinning stories that were half truth and half creative interpretation. Building the mystique of his best friend word by word, brick by brick, until Aidan Hawke was more legend than man.

Not even a mad Knight Commander could imprison a _legend_. Not even an Arishok could strike him down. As far as protective measures went, the stories were just as important as the bribes…if a good deal more flashy. And a hell of a lot more stylish.

“The warehouse was hushed,” Varric said, letting his voice drop a register. His audience leaned forward almost as one, caught on his words. One of the women pressed a hand over her mouth. The man next to her swallowed audibly. “Empty. Or at least that’s what they wanted us to believe. The guard captain slowly drew her sword, metal rasping against metal. I held my crossbow ready, heart _racing_. I could feel a tremor trying to work its way through me, but Hawke… Hawke stood steady, one hand lifted to hold us back, eyes fixed on the light pouring through cracks in old wood.”

He paused and took a swallow of his beer. The rest of the Hanged Man may have been spinning on in its drunken reel, but here, right here, he held his audience frozen as easily as any mage. “The seconds ticked by, and I shit you not: Hawke. Did. Not. Move.”

The nearest candle guttered in its sconce as the main door opened and closed, but Varric didn’t look up. He _had_ them; they were tense to a man, leaning forward, eyes wide. Literally holding their breaths as he strung them along. “And then the light shifted, so subtly a lesser man would certainly have missed it. But Hawke was no lesser man. He smirked and brought his armored fist down hard, with a _crash_ —”

Varric slammed his own fist against the table, hiding a grin when they jolted back.

“—smashing the hinge with a single blow. The shadow leapt back, but it was already too late. ‘Follow me!’ he called. And then Hawke _tore_ the door clean off its hinges, walked into the room and…”

A shadow fell over him. Varric ticked his gaze up, stumbling to a halt. _Aidan_ stood there in his simple dark grey-and-green leathers, arms crossed over his broad chest, one black brow arched. 

Well, _balls_.

Varric cleared his throat. “I guess we’ll finish this later,” he said.

“But,” one of the women protested…only to fall silent when her companion leaned close to whisper in her ear. She glanced back, pale eyes going _wide_ at the sight of Aidan, and scrambled up immediately, heavy skirts tangling around her legs.

“Hello,” Aidan said, expression softening into a smile. Friendly as ever.

She squeaked out an unintelligible reply and nearly pitched over the sweeping hem of her skirt; Aidan reacted with the finely honed reflexes Varric had been so carefully making famous, catching her before she could fall. “Careful,” Aidan said. “Careful there. Are you okay?”

But she just stared up at him, lips parted, balled hands pressed against his (yes, quite impressive) chest—eyes _huge_. And then she _wrenched_ herself away and grasped for her friend’s hand. They fled for the door together, glancing back at Aidan over their shoulders and breaking into high-pitched giggles as the door slammed shut behind them.

Varric had to hide his smirk in his beer, watching the rest of the crowd quickly disperse over the rim of the mug. Aidan simply frowned after the two women.

“I…have no idea what just happened,” he mused, mostly to himself.

That didn’t come as any kind of shock. Varric had seen people from all walks of life practically fling themselves at the mage’s head and Aidan _still_ somehow managed to miss the signs. Varric could never quite tell whether he was deliberately oblivious or just _that_ sheltered, even after so long in Kirkwall.

Or maybe it was a mage-Voice thing, Varric mused. Maker knew _he_ understood fuck all about that.

Finally Aidan just shrugged and turned back to Varric. “Have you got a minute, Varric?”

“For you, I have all the time in the world. Pull up a chair, Hawke,” Varric said. He kicked out a chair for his friend, offering a sunny grin. “Sit a spell. Can I order you a drink? Corff’s got some of the good shit on tap if you’re willing to sit through a bout of his latest crazy for it.”

Aidan flipped the chair around and straddled it, arms crossing over the back in that easy way he had. It didn’t creak under his weight like it would for anyone else; even the _chairs_ were sweet on the kid. Figured. “Nah, I’ll just steal from yours instead.”

Varric pointed. “Do that, and I’m going to have to find a new hero for my stories.”

“A large part of me wouldn’t complain if you did,” he said with a laugh. “People in the streets are starting to stare; it’s unnerving.”

“Tch. It’s a good thing, Hawke.”

Aidan hesitated, head tipping slightly. Going serious. Dark, springy curls—hair long grown out of its more severe cut—brushed his brow, and Varric actually felt his heart tighten in his chest in response. It was _insane_ the way Aidan Hawke could engender friendship, sympathy, strong emotion of one kind or another in nearly everyone he met. Friend of Dalish and outcasts and refugees and princes turned Chantry brothers and…the list went on and on. Even the decentish _Templars_ seemed to like him.

 _That_ was what made him the perfect folk hero for Varric’s stories. _That_ was why people were so willing to buy the bullshit Varric fed them. _That_ was what put him at the center of every storm cooking up around Kirkwall too, for good or ill. He had the kind of charisma that both made him a star _and_ a lightning rod, and Varric vacillated wildly between wanting to protect him at all costs and dying to document everything he said or did.

You know: for posterity.

Varric shook off the long thoughts and offered Aidan a crooked grin. “Trust me, Hawke, you want them noticing you. It’s going to be what saves your hide someday, mark my words.”

“Is it?” Aidan murmured. “I don’t know, Varric. Being out in the open like I am…it’s taking a lot of getting used to. I’m the apostate son of an apostate. I was raised to think that _being the center of attention_ is just asking for trouble.”

“There’s no avoiding the attention, Hawke, even if I never told another story. You’re rich,” Varric countered, leaning forward. “You came back from the Deep Roads with more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. You bought back your title and your ancestral holdings and you did it all as a penniless refugee from Ferelden. That alone is enough to get tongues wagging. You pissed off a lot of old families doing that, too, which is a sure-fire way to make the people who _really_ matter love you.”

He flushed. “That wasn’t why I did it,” Aidan protested. “It was important to Mother. That was her _home_. She’s already lost—”

But Varric just held up a hand. “You don’t have to make the hard sell with me, Hawke. I know why you’ve been doing what you’re doing. Helping your mother, helping your friends, helping the refugees, helping the,” he cast a quick glance around to make sure no one had wandered near, but the Hanged Man was remarkably quiet for this time of night, “mages. But all that is going to draw some eyes. You might as well use that to your advantage; protect yourself with money _and_ power _and_ popular support.”

Aidan reached for the mug, clearly on instinct, looking for something to keep his hands busy—then paused and pulled back with a sheepish smile. Varric sighed and pushed the mug toward him anyway. 

“I guess,” Aidan said, nodding once in thanks and taking a quick sip. “No, I mean— _yes_ , I understand. It’s a little…odd, but I do appreciate what you’ve been doing to help me. It’s just hard to shake all those years of running and hiding. Back when I was a kid, attracting attention could mean the Circle.” He set aside the mug and dragged his hand through his hair, fingers snarling in the dark curls. One of his visible tells. Varric had won some epic rounds of Wicked Grace thanks to that single nervous gesture. “Void, I really do get what you’re trying to do with all your stories, but sometimes it still feels like the wrong set of eyes could land me in the Gallows, or worse.”

 _Worse_. It didn’t do to think about what _worse_ could mean for men like Aidan and Anders. For Merrill.

“Trust me, Hawke. You really would have been at the center of this damn storm even without my help. All I’m doing is seeding a few stories, whipping up some interest here and there...helping to nudge people into thinking of you as the kind of man they should fight for if good old Carver decides to secure his next promotion by turning on his apostate brother.”

Aidan immediately stiffened. “Carver would never—”

But Varric held up his hands, warding off the angry retort. “No, no, you’re right; that wasn’t fair. But my point holds. _Hawke the wealthy man_ is hard enough to drag to the Circle should Metalbritches pull her nose out of her ass and realize those fireballs of yours aren’t casting themselves. But _Hawke the folk hero_? I’d like to see her _try_.”

Aidan blew out a breath. “ _I_ wouldn’t,” he said, but he was relaxing into a smile again. Varric could actually feel the temperature of their conversation changing, the air between them warming again. Sometimes he wondered if this whole _charm_ thing wasn’t actually a spell after all. Aidan Hawke could rain down fire and call lightning and freeze men where they stood. He could throw things around with the flick of his wrist and heal wounds that would kill a normal person. He could do _so much_ ; who was to say he couldn’t get into someone’s head and stir it up a little too?

Except…yeah, _no_. His best friend wasn’t exactly Idunna, the Exotic Wonder from the East. Varric could read people, and Aidan was the real deal. A magnet for crazy, sure, but pure as shit. “Now where’s your sense of adventure?” Varric teased, allowing himself to relax and smile back. Playful.

Aidan’s grin turned huge and faux-sunny. “I must have dropped it when I ripped that door off its hinges. Seriously, Varric? Who do you think I am: Aveline?”

He snorted, downing the last of his beer. “It was close enough to count. Surely you can give me that.”

“That thing was rusted through. A stiff breeze could have knocked it over!”

“Ah, but a stiff breeze _didn’t_ ; Aidan Hawke did. People don’t need all the details for the story to stick, Hawke. If anything, putting in too much detail is a sure-fire way to trip it all up. You’ve got to…” He gestured, leaning back in his chair. “Paint a broad picture. Use the big strokes. Let their minds fill in the rest.”

Aidan tipped his head. “Is that why all your stories sort of sound the same?” he teased, then ducked when Varric made as if to swipe at him. “All right, all right, peace!” Aidan laughed. “Peace. I’ll leave you and your stories alone, so long as they don’t make me out to be too, ah, superhuman. I don’t want people challenging me in the streets trying to prove a point—we get enough of that with the gangs around here.”

“I’ll be careful,” Varric said dryly.

Aidan rested his chin on his folded arms, brow knitting together subtly. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

 _Uh-oh_ , Varric thought, bracing himself. He knew that look. Aidan had something on his mind—something serious. Or at least serious enough to worry at the edges of his thoughts. They’d been friends long enough—and had become close enough—that Varric had become a master at reading the signs. “What’s on your mind, Hawke?” he said, quiet. If he’d learned anything it was that sometimes, with Aidan, it was best to tease him out of his head before his thoughts had a chance to spiral down into something hard to pull back from. For all that he was a good-natured kid, Aidan—and his mother—had seen enough shit in their lives to drown weaker men.

“In these stories you keep spreading,” Aidan began slowly. “I notice you don’t… I know you can’t mention that he’s my—” he glanced around quickly “—Voice, but you rarely seem to mention Fenris at all. He was at that raid of the Foundry you were talking about. But in your story, it was just you and me and Aveline.” Aidan wet his lips. “Why?”

Varric hesitated. It was really none of his business (there was practically a big, flashing sign over the elf’s head that said as much), but he couldn’t quite swallow back the creeping concern he felt every time he saw the two of them together. He supposed that wariness had found its way into his stories despite his best efforts to seem detached. 

He cleared his throat. “Actually,” Varric said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Well, about Fenris at least. You’re discrete enough about it, sure, but ever since the Deep Roads, I can’t help but notice you and that elf—you know, the angsty Tevinter one,” he added, trying to lighten the mood with a bad joke, “are becoming quite the item.” 

Aidan looked down at his folded arms, whorls of color spreading slowly across his cheeks. Varric squirmed uncomfortably, half wishing he could take it back, but he forced himself to add in a light, friendly tone: “So, wanna fill your unofficial biographer in on what’s going on, Hawke?”

“Well well well,” Aidan said as he glanced up through his lashes. The sing-song, teasing way he drawled the words felt a little forced, but Varric was glad enough he was treating the question like a joke. It was so much easier to talk real shit with Aidan when they were allowed to be sarcastic assholes about it. “So you are deliberately keeping him out of your stories. I never thought you were the jealous type, Varric. I’m _flattered_.”

Varric had a smirk all nice and ready for that. “It’s the chest hair, isn’t it? People can never resist my chest hair. Unfortunately, it’s not to be—I’m spoken for.”

“Ah, Bianca stands in my way again, does she?” Aidan laughed.

“What can I say? She’s the jealous type.” Then, before they could completely veer off into a tangent and sidestep what he’d been wanting to say, Varric added, “Listen, as your friend, I feel like I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t say something.” 

Aidan subtly tensed. “Varric…”

But Varric just held up a hand. “I don’t pretend to understand the whole…Voice thing. But I understand you better than most, and I’ve got a pretty good idea about him too. And I just have to say…” Shit, why was this so hard? “You _do_ know the elf is covered in spikes, like an angsty porcupine. He might have some…issues.”

And _issues_ was putting it mildly.

Aidan, thankfully, seemed willing to take the friendly meddling in stride. He grinned, brows dancing playfully. “Varric,” he said. “In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever given you the impression that I was turned _off_ by crazy?”

That startled a laugh out of him. He grinned back, relieved to have gotten the whole thing off his chest. Now, when it inevitably went sideways and he had to step in to drag Aidan out of whatever tailspin the elf put him in, at least he’d be able to tell himself he’d tried to stop it. “Okay,” Varric said. “Point taken.”

“I know you mean well, Varric,” Aidan added in a quieter, more serious tone. The light was still in his eyes, but his smile was softer. “But you don’t need to worry. He’s my Voice. Yes, it’s…difficult, I won’t lie, but he’s not going to hurt me.”

_Not on purpose, maybe._

Aidan must have been able to read the doubt on his face. He leaned forward and lightly clapped Varric’s shoulder, smile going warm and lopsided. _Fond_. “Don’t worry; I know what I’m doing.”

“I certainly hope so,” Varric murmured, but he held up his hands again in surrender. “No, no, I trust you, Hawke. If you say you’ve got this shit under control, then I believe you. I’m just…” _Trying to protect you_. “Keeping an eye on my investment.”

“Your _investment_ ,” Aidan protested with a laugh.

Varric smirked and waved Norah over, gesturing vaguely toward his empty mug. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve put a lot of time and effort into following you around, Hawke. I’m not about to watch you take a nosedive all in the name of _love_. Bah.”

“So this intense and lasting relationship with your crossbow…” he began.

Varric simply held up a finger. “Let’s not ruin a perfectly good segue by circling back on ourselves. _Speaking_ of segues…”

“Nice,” Aidan said.

“…watch me awkwardly segue us out of this conversation and back where it belongs: business. I’ve got word on a new job if you’re still interested in work now that you’re set for life.”

“I’m interested. I could say something uplifting about doing it for the people,” Aidan mused. “And sure, that’s _there_ , but honestly, there’s a big part of me that would just get bored out of my mind if my life was all lounging about the house in red pajamas and trying to avoid dinner parties.”

Varric smirked. “How are your new houseguests settling in?”

“Good. Well. Mostly good. Anders still sleeps down in his clinic some nights—honestly, I think Mother is a little too intense for him sometimes. But he takes dinner with us and doesn’t refuse the lunches she sends down, so he may settle yet.”

“And Daisy?”

Aidan smirked back. “Merrill is happily settled in what would have been Carver’s room. _Which_ I take almost unnecessary delight in telling him every time I drop by the Gallows for some Hawke family bonding. I’m fairly certain the idea of Merrill sleeping in what would have been _his bed_ is nearly enough to make him abandon the Order.”

Varric barked a laugh, grabbing for his fresh beer as Norah sat it down. Aidan smiled his thanks when she set his own mug next to his elbow, and she flushed and muttered something beneath her breath before scurrying off.

Aidan just took a sip of his beer and didn’t notice…as usual.

“Maker’s furry nutsack,” Varric mused, shaking his head. “What am I going to do with you?” At Aidan’s startled look, he just chuckled. “Nothing, never mind. Okay, lemme lay out the job for you and we’ll see if your sense of adventure is up for the challenge…”


	29. Fenris

The late afternoon was sinking into early evening, shadows lengthening across his floor. A wind blew from the south, cooler now that the seasons had finally changed. It brought with it the promise of a miserable winter to come and, very faintly, the threat of rain. Fenris fought not to pay it any mind, eyes trained on the fire and fingers curled just shy of too tight around the neck of a bottle.

Outside his open window, he could hear the inane chatter of the city. If he strained—if he really fought to drown out the lords and ladies and highborn nonsense that ebbed and flowed around his ruined mansion—he might, just might, be able to hear the scuff of Hawke’s boot against the stone. He might hear the other man quietly pushing open his door. Stepping inside. Climbing the winding stairs to him.

_Fasta vass._

Fenris closed his eyes and let out a short, harsh breath. He was being such a _fool_ , and yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Every piece of him strained toward the inevitability of Aidan Hawke’s voice calling up the stairs, his smile, the almost-tentative brush of his hand. His presence, felt like its own sort of touch even when Fenris looked away. He hated that this was the case, hated the way he had become paralyzed in the face of that ever-growing connection, but he couldn’t seem to force away the quickening of hope.

Of happiness. Of…some soft emotion he refused to give name to.

Maker, this would be the death of him. His pulse was already thrumming from just the hope of Hawke’s presence, and his stomach was a mess of nerves. It seemed impossible that the mage could do this to him. And yet… Here he was, _listening_ , waiting. Hoping.

“Bah,” Fenris spat, taking a deep swallow of wine. He jerked to his feet, fighting the impulse to fling the half-full bottle into the fire. The shatter of glass would give him a moment of visceral satisfaction, but he would only end up cursing himself later when he had to sweep the hearth for fear of what Leandra would say.

And how, _how_ , had he reached a point where he cared what some human woman thought of him?

He shoved the bottle onto the mantel and stalked away from the heat of the fire, toward the window. The sun was very nearly kissing the skyline, red and gold disappearing into shades of lavender, violet, indigo. A woman was bustling across the square with her arms full of packages, brightly colored skirts swinging. Down the high hill, the Chantry bell began to toll the hour.

Almost as if by fate—by magic?—Fenris’s gaze shifted the moment Hawke turned the corner. It was as if he’d known to expect him, as if he could feel his approach, and the comingled thrum of fear and anticipation of that singular terrifying thought had his pulse racing. Fenris gripped the windowsill, watching as Hawke crossed the cobblestone square toward his mansion…his grey eyes lifting as if he could sense the weight of Fenris’s stare.

Their eyes met. 

Held.

It was all at once so very impossible to breathe. Fenris dug his nails into the windowsill, _trembling_ like an untested maiden as a slow, shy smile spread across Hawke’s face. Hawke dipped his head, dark curls falling across his brow, and even at this distance, Fenris could see the flush unfurling across his cheeks and turning his ears a cherry red.

And despite his fears, his doubts, his rejection of all things magical, his own lips began to quirk in return.

“Fool,” Fenris muttered beneath his breath, but he didn’t turn away from the window until Hawke had crossed the square and reached his stoop, as if somehow his watchful gaze was the only thing keeping the other man safe. He couldn’t explain that protective fear even to himself. That, he supposed, was the worst of it—of this nonsense about _Voices_. He spent every hour not in Hawke’s presence thinking about him. He spent every moment by his side yearning to be closer. He wanted to protect him, to touch him, to bare his teeth and snarl at anyone who came near.

He wanted—

Just—

_So much_. And Maker but it was overwhelming to know he could have it all if he only trusted that the longing came from himself and not some magical compulsion.

Yet even that very real fear wasn’t enough to drown out the impulse to watch Hawke— _Aidan_ —until he was safely to his door. It wasn’t until he heard it closing on the landing below that Fenris turned away…hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to contain the wild, improbable joy that insisted on spiraling through his limbs despite all sense of reason or decorum.

_This is not natural,_ Fenris thought with a snarl, pacing back to the fire, one arm resting along the mantle. He stared moodily down into the flames, trying to force himself to remember the downcast eyes of the unum vinctum. They were slaves as surely as he had been, only _they_ celebrated their enslavement. Their minds had been turned by their magister’s claim, and he was a stark fool to want any part of that. _This is the product of magic corrupting your mind. What you feel is not real._

Maker, it would all be so much easier if he could only believe that.

Fenris didn’t turn even when he heard the scrape of Aidan’s foot in the doorway. He kept his head down at the sound of him shifting to a stop, then the soft clearing of his throat—which sent actual _shivers_ down his spine. The hair at the back of his neck was standing up and he was so aware of Aidan that each breath was a pitched battle.

Oh how he wanted to touch him.

“May I come in?” Aidan finally asked, and his quiet voice was enough to have Fenris lifting his head, eyes seeking him out across the slowly darkening room. He was dressed in his dark leathers—browns and greens tooled with delicate runework about the cuffs and neck. There were old stains about the hem from some bloody task in recent memory. Now that he was a wealthy man, Fenris had half expected Aidan to begin dressing the part, and yet he looked exactly the same as he had before the Deep Roads.

No. No, that wasn’t quite true. He was sadder now that he’d lost Carver to the Templars, and that whisper of melancholy was enough to make Fenris ache in response. He wanted to—

_Touch him._

Swallowing hard, Fenris reached out a hand. “Come,” he said gruffly, refusing to let himself react to the way Aidan immediately moved to his side as if it had been an agony to wait for permission. Perhaps that, too, explained the shadows in the other man’s eyes. But he didn’t like to consider how he might be hurting Aidan.

Instead, he closed his fingers around Aidan’s, feeling the rush of relief at contact—the way the anxious buzzing inside him stilled. Went soft and warm and…and good. _Content_. Was there really such a thing for an escaped slave?

Grumbling deep in his chest, Fenris tugged Aidan closer, wrapping his arms around him. Ever since his near-death in the Deep Roads, they had been doing this. Coming together. _Touching_. The world didn’t feel right unless they were touching, and while he knew that had to be a side effect of the magic—compulsion—that had settled over him, there was a large part of Fenris that didn’t want to resist.

It just felt so _good_.

He bared his teeth even as he slid his arms around Aidan, palms dragging down the curve of his spine. He could feel the shift and bunch of muscles beneath tooled leather, and when he pressed his face into the crook of Aidan’s neck, he could smell the peculiar mix of scents that always wanted to spark some long-lost memory.

_His skin smelled, strangely, of mint and lemongrass and wet dog._

Fenris shook away the nagging tease of an almost-memory and drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs as Aidan lightly dropped big hands to his hips.

“If you’re scenting ale on me,” he murmured, tilting his head so his breath stirred the hair at Fenris’s temple, “it’s because I stopped in to talk to Varric before coming here. He’s got wind of a new job, if you’re interested.”

Fenris just snorted and gave in to insurmountable temptation, brushing his lips up the column of Aidan’s throat to the delicate shell of his ear. At first, he’d _tried_ to resist this impossible need to have his hands, his mouth, on Aidan, but by now…

Venhedis. By now he just bowed straight away to the inevitable and soaked in the shivering pleasure of their contact, then brooded over what it all meant later.

Aidan’s breath caught at the first light flicker of Fenris’s tongue against his earlobe. The grip on his hips tightened and Fenris felt that now-familiar unfolding warmth low in his belly. Fenris shifted restlessly in response, pressing closer as the constant low-level buzz of arousal began to spark little by little. “It involves the Wounded Coast…”

He bit Aidan’s earlobe hard, tongue swirling against the reddened flesh a breath later in apology. Fuck, he loved the noise the mage made when he did that, trapped low in his throat and aching. Those sparks heated; he was starting to harden, cock beginning to press against the give of his black leggings. “That does not sell your plan, Hawke,” Fenris murmured into his ear, one hand restlessly moving down his chest.

He wanted their armor off. He wanted to strip Aidan to little more than his smallclothes and shove him down into his usual chair; wanted to climb onto his lap, straddling his waist, and suck hard on his tongue as he rode the increasingly frantic buck of his hips.

Fenris dipped a gauntlet-clawed fingertip into one of the buckles holding Aidan’s cuirass in place and gave a demanding tug.

The low whine of Aidan’s next breath made something bloom fierce and bright in his chest. Fenris hid the subtle change of his expression—Maker, how it could give him away—as he pressed hot, sucking kisses up the pale arc of Aidan’s neck, leaving reddened marks along the way. It drove him mad sometimes, knowing Aidan was branded by his touch. Not just the scars that echoed his own, not just that one horrific night he could never remember and Aidan resisted speaking of, but _this_. This here. Teeth worrying at the join of neck and shoulder, hands fumbling at the buckles of his armor, need spiking suddenly fast and hot and out of control, fuck, _fuck_.

“It,” Aidan gasped, writhing up into Fenris’s grip. His own hands began pulling at the sharp points of Fenris’s armor, trying to tug it off and away. “It involves— _oh Maker_ —slavers.”

The leather cuirass clattered to the ground between them, revealing the simple cotton underarmor. Fenris raked the tips of his gauntlets down Aidan’s chest, catching the laces of his shirt along the way and ripping them free. He glanced up, baring his teeth in a snarling grin when he met Aidan’s pleasure-blown eyes. He wanted to hold him down and devour him whole. “Fine, yes,” Fenris said. Then, “ _Off_.”

Aidan stumbled back a step, nearly tripping over his own discarded armor. He gave a bright, breathless laugh, grabbing the hem of his shirt and dragging it up and off, flinging it aside. The firelight caught against the raised edges of his scars, tracing in familiar patterns across his shoulders, his arms, down his chest and belly. He began ripping off his gauntlets one after the other, then reached for the belt with all its grenades and potions and caltrops—the better to sell the image of Aidan Hawke, ordinary rogue to a world that was becoming increasingly interested in the man who’d clawed his way up from obscurity. “How far?” he asked—meaning how much should he strip down. There were days when they took this game almost to the edge, bared down to nothing but smalls, nearly naked skin slick with sweat as they rocked and strained together, desperately clawing for the completion Fenris would not, could not allow them.

And then there were days when he refused to remove his own armor, needing the barrier between them—knowing that if he stripped himself bare, he would finally give himself fully to Aidan and damn the consequences.

_Unum vinctum_. A willing slave to a mage after all.

But today…today he was so void-taken hungry for him he could barely think. “All of it,” Fenris snapped, throwing aside a gauntlet. He left the other on as he tugged at his breastplate, needing the cold of leather and steel to keep him grounded.

Aidan let out a ragged breath and nodded, wrestling with the buckles that held the heavy belt in place. Watching pieces of his armor fall away—leaving him open, vulnerable—was enough to set Fenris’s heart to racing. He bit the inside of his mouth hard as Aidan bent to yank at a boot, dark tangle of his hair sweeping across his face, big body stumbling back a few steps as he fought to keep his balance.

This eager awkwardness from a man who could be nothing but grace and death in battle was unnervingly endearing. He stripped off his own underarmor and tossed it aside, watching as Aidan kicked off the second boot and sock, then tumbled back with a sudden barking laugh onto the edge of Fenris’s bed.

“So graceful. I’m sure this is all incredibly hot for you,” Aidan said, leaning back on one hand. He brushed curls back from his forehead with the other, crinkles forming around his beautiful eyes. Leaning back on Fenris’s bed, clad only in the dark green leathers he wore under his armor, muscular body cast in highlights and shadows from the fire, he was so incredible that Fenris nearly dropped to his knees in response. Just…fell between his thighs, spreading them wide with the breadth of his own shoulders, eyes locked on his as he leaned down to drag his tongue along the straining bulge highlighted by soft cloth and _Maker_ , he had read too many of Isabela’s filthy novels if he was allowing his thoughts to trip wantonly down this path.

He let out a serrated breath, dragging his fingers through his hair. The sharp tips of his gauntlet scraped along his scalp, steadying him.

_Focus._

“Fenris—”

Fenris swiped a hand through the air, silencing him. He let the last of his armor drop, leaving him clad in only his own dark leggings and a single gauntlet. Fenris met Aidan’s eyes as he stalked forward, gauntleted fist clenching and unclenching.

Aidan swallowed and dropped his other hand to the bed, taking his weight. He scrambled back a few inches, eyes widening when Fenris actually _growled_. And then the sharp tips of Fenris’s gauntlet were pressing against his bare chest and Fenris leaned close—close enough to feel the pants of Aidan’s breath, close enough to see the thin rings of blue-grey surrounding the dark pits of his eyes.

“Fenris,” Aidan breathed again.

And Fenris caught his mouth in a kiss.

It was slow and hot, harsh, his tongue thrusting into Aidan’s mouth and laying siege. He swallowed Aidan’s breathy moan, pressing in for more when the first assault wasn’t enough. It was _never_ enough—that was the madness driving him, pounding in his blood. No matter how many times he had his hands on this mage, had him trapped within the tight circle of his arms it. Was. Not. Enough.

He lifted his hand and snarled his fingers into dark curls, yanking Aidan’s head back and then gentling immediately—lips going soft and almost sweet, breath fanning over his face. Aidan made a whining noise low in his throat, lips parted, eyes closed. His arms trembled as he fought to hold himself upright and Fenris couldn’t remember a time when he had been more beautiful.

Fenris brushed his tongue along Aidan’s lower lip, teasing to the corner of his mouth. His other hand lifted as he leaned closer, cupping the sharp angle of Aidan’s jaw. He’d long since shaved the close-cropped beard, relying on potions and salves to hide the scarring at his chin and throat. A part of Fenris missed the soft tickle of it against his lips; another part shivered every time harsher stubble scraped his skin.

Maker, what that would feel like against his thighs.

He surged closer at the thought, pushing Aidan to the mattress and following him down with a choked-off moan. Their mouths caught again, held, seaming together just in time to muffle startled cries at the first grind of their cocks. Fuck, _fuck_ he was hard, Aidan just as hard against him—it was all he could do not to begin rocking forward at once. He was so keyed up from just a few kisses, body throwing off sparks. There was so little between their bodies, and all he had to do…

All he had to do…

_Venhedis_ , all he had to do was slide his hand down and twist eager fingers into the hem of Aidan’s underarmor, freeing his cock and—

And they would be bonded, because Maker knew he barely had the strength to keep them from going too far without the added temptation of Aidan completely naked beneath him.

Fenris made a frustrated noise and swallowed Aidan’s tongue hungrily, riding the impatient writhe of his hips. He dragged his free hand down Aidan’s flank, the other still tangled in his hair. When Aidan slid a thigh over Fenris’s trim hips, tugging their bodies closer, Fenris had to break the kiss to drag in a ragged gasp. They were panting harshly, lips only a breath apart, _already_ so desperate Fenris could feel the tightening coil deep in his belly.

“Maker, please,” Aidan murmured, rocking forward—and the fuckyesgood _grind_ of their cocks shot through Fenris in little earthquakes. “Please. _Please_.”

_Yes_. The answer was in every line of his body, was thick on his tongue, was echoed back in Aidan’s eyes, because no matter how much it frightened him, Fenris _wanted this_. He wanted Aidan with a ferocity that was almost animal, echoing deep inside—and not just physically. 

The damned mage filled him with a thousand and one soft, impossible urges. He wanted to press his ear to Aidan’s heart, listening for the soothing rhythm of his breaths. He wanted to hear stories of his life in Ferelden. He wanted to tangle his fingers in black hair and kiss those perfect lips for hours. He wanted to feel the warmth and kindness and acceptance that filled this ridiculous man spilling over into him, soothing his sharp angles, making him feel—

Whole.

He wanted to be _whole_.

And that was dark magic indeed.

“No,” Fenris said, carefully detangling himself. He let go of his death grip on Aidan, then reached none too gently to grip Aidan’s wrists and pull his arms down between their bodies. Aidan immediately untangled their bodies—he never resisted when Fenris pulled away—but he turned his face away, like always. As if he was afraid of what pain Fenris would have been able to read in his gaze.

Fenris closed his eyes, hating himself, and pulled back. “I am sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Aidan breathed, the way Fenris knew he would. The way he always did. He reached up to touch Fenris’s cheek, but Fenris was already moving away. It had all happened so quickly; they were cycling through their now-familiar stages of want and denial and hurt and comfort faster and faster now. 

But then, Fenris mused darkly as he paced away toward the window, was that any surprise when he wanted the other man _so much_?

He gripped the windowsill again, digging his nails in tight. The tips of his gauntlet left sharp pinpricks against the wood, and Fenris fought a sudden desperate rage. He dug the metal into pocked wood, dragging furrows along the sill as he stared blindly across Hightown. Behind him, he could hear Aidan standing and gathering himself—trying to fit together the pieces Fenris kept smashing apart.

Why, why, _why_ did he keep doing this? If he couldn’t stand the threat of the bond hanging over them, why couldn’t he just send Aidan away for good?

“I stopped by the house before coming here,” Aidan said, breaking the heavy silence as if things were—could ever be—normal between them. “You’ll be shocked to know Mother forced me to bring you enough food to restock your pantry for a week.”

“Did you see _Anders_ on your way?” he muttered, the name bitter on his tongue.

Aidan’s voice was mild. “No,” he said easily; Fenris could hear him taking his usual seat. “But even if I had, I’m pretty sure _he_ wouldn’t have sent any muffins along. Do you want one?”

“ _No!_ ” Fenris snapped, whirling on Aidan, _hating_ the thought of Anders sharing a roof so effortlessly with the man he— With—

Then he stopped, meeting Aidan’s eyes. Aidan was partially dressed again, lips kiss-reddened, hair mussed. The firelight caught the silver-pale outline of his scars, and as Fenris watched, he began to smile so incredibly sweetly. Teasing and bright.

All of Fenris trembled in response. “You are ridiculous.”

He just laughed. “True,” Aidan said, as if somehow he didn’t realize how very unworthy Fenris was of his unflagging love. “But on the plus side: there really are muffins. So it isn’t all that bad.”

Fenris studied him for a long minute, then quietly snorted and padded over to take his own seat. He didn’t reach for one of the shirts Leandra had foisted on him; there was no point. Before their visit was through, they’d like as not be ripping clothing off each other again, starting the whole thing at the beginning. It was becoming a routine he couldn’t bring himself to stop; attraction, desire, desperation, rejection, pain, forgiveness. Over and over and over.

_Some day_ , he thought, one hand fisted so hard his nails drew half-moons of blood. _Some day soon, it must end._


	30. Carver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Mention of Templar abuses, including implication that a Templar is physically and/or sexually mistreating a mage. If that sort of thing triggers you, please skip to the section break.

He woke every morning before the sun.

That in itself wasn’t new. Back before he’d become a Templar—in those dark days when he’d been the only person in the Hawke household capable of keeping their lives running at an even clip—Carver had been used to dragging himself out of bed and seeing to the daily chores. Building the fire, setting breakfast to boil, checking in on his mother and siblings as they lay curled beneath the deep miasma Voices had brought to their lives.

Hurt gnawing deep in his chest to look at them, wishing he had the power to fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong. Wishing he had the power to do anything at all.

He had that power now…in a way. Enough that he bounded out of bed and was strapped into his cold plate shell long before he was expected to take his rounds. Ser Mettin was on watch today, and that meant a second pair of eyes might be needed. It was all part of his routine now—and Maker, but that was depressing if he thought about it too long.

The halls were still dark and cold, shadows lying deep in the Gallows. Whenever he imagined Aidan or Bethany in a place like this, his stomach turned. Bethany might have done all right in time, if she found the right friends and kept her head down, but Aidan—

Aidan would have come flying apart in a week.

No, Carver thought grimly—hurrying his pace at the distant echo of a familiar voice—Aidan would have drawn the attention of predators like Mettin in less than a _day_ , and Carver would have brought the whole Gallows down around their ears in a fury.

He might still.

Carver burst into the mage’s solar, mouth already drawn in a grim line. Sure enough, Mettin had one of the young mage girls penned into a corner, her face turned away, her cheeks flushed. She looked so frightened and miserable and _young_ that Carver very nearly lost control of his temper and came in swinging right there and then. Instead, he cleared his throat and forced himself to say in an even voice, “Oh, there you are.”

Mettin turned with a guilty start, immediately hiding his shame with bluster. “Hawke,” he said coldly. The girl was looking at Carver with huge green eyes “I wasn’t aware you had first watch.”

“I don’t.” Let him make of that what he would. “The Knight-Captain is looking for you.”

“Cullen?” The man cocked his head, like Trouble scenting a fight.

“Do we have so many Knight-Captains running about?”

Mettin scowled, plated shoulders drawing together. “You know, _Hawke_ ,” he spat, “your mouth is almost as smart as your brother’s. That’s going to get you both in a world of hurt someday.”

The implied threat had him tensing up, temper rising—no doubt just as Mettin had intended—but Carver swallowed back the flash of protective rage and forced himself to smile. Fucking void-taken prick. “Is this the part where we trade insults,” he asked, “or were you going to follow orders instead?”

Carver was proud of how controlled he sounded—how coolly dismissive—and sure, a good part of that may have come from watching Aidan all of these years, but here, now, it _worked_. Mettin flushed an even darker red, then muttered a curse and stalked out of the solar. Carver watched him go, not relaxing until the sound of his clanking echoed far down the corridor.

Cullen wouldn’t be particularly pleased to have Ser Mettin burst in on his sleep a good hour before he was to be up, but then, Carver figured, their only truly just Knight-Captain _needed_ to be kicked awake.

In more ways than one.

“So,” he said when he was finally certain Mettin was well and truly gone. He began to turn toward the young mage. “I think you—”

She was already running before he could get all the words out, long robes streaming behind her, fleet as halla and just as pale.

“—should probably head back to your dorm,” Carver finished after a moment of stunned silence. Dear Maker, were they scared of him, too? “No, no, don’t thank me. I’m just the only Templar in this benighted place who actually knows what his duty is.”

That wasn’t completely fair—but it wasn’t completely untrue either. Things had been getting worse since he joined up, not better. It was Meredith. She’d never been what Carver would have called stable, but she’d just been getting more and more erratic as time wore on. There were orders that came down from her office sometimes that seemed downright _deranged_. And then, there were days when she locked herself in her rooms and barely made a sound.

And _Cullen_. There’d been a time before he’d joined the Templars when Carver had thought men like Cullen and Thrask were keeping a lid on the excesses of the Templars, but it turned out Cullen was just as bundled up inside his own head as Meredith could sometimes be, and Thrask? Thrask was _old_. And all the others who might have tried to do something were, conversely, too young to dare.

It really did seem like some days, he was the only hope for the Kirkwall Circle—and wasn’t that just bloody depressing? Not to mention typical.

…not to mention terrifying.

“Right,” Carver said, looking around the empty room. Even his father’s tales of life in the Circle hadn’t painted things as bad as reality was turning out to be. “Good start to the day, then. It can’t possibly all go downhill from here, right?”

The sad flickers of light barely pushing through the barred—barred!—windows seemed answer enough for him. Maker. If he didn’t get out of this place, even if only for a few hours, he might start going as barking mad as the Knight-Commander herself.

And wouldn’t Aidan and his friends have a laugh then?

Carver spent the day keeping a careful eye on both the mages and the Templars, inserting himself when it looked like trouble was brewing and holding his tongue by sheer stubborn willpower alone. By the end of his watch, he was exhausted from soothing tempers and playing bodyguard, making himself a wall between the worst of the Templars and the weakest of the mages. (And in some cases, the worst of the mages and the stupidest of the Templars.)

At the end of the end, he felt a guilty twinge as he shucked out of his armor and dressed down in simple gear, a part of him whispering that men like Ser Mettin didn’t restrict their predatory behavior to the hours they were on duty…but Maker take his hide, he needed just a few hours to let off steam or he might very well explode. It wasn’t like it used to be when he was following his brother around: there wasn’t a Hanged Man within easy reach, with bad ale and worse jokes and friendly conversation.

The dorms were tense. The mess hall was tense. The whole damned Gallows was tense, and the only way to escape from its shadow was to slip into civilian clothes and make his way over to the docks and up the winding steps of Hightown.

Carver felt the tight set of his shoulders relaxing more and more with each step he took. By the time he was letting himself into the old Amell mansion, he almost felt like a person again…but even as he thought that, he couldn’t help the other thought that always crept up on its heels:

_You’re lucky because you can escape. How many people are trapped in that Circle unable to ever leave?_

He pushed the door shut and leaned back against it with a sigh. “Shit,” Carver said feelingly.

A delighted bark answered him, and within seconds Trouble was _bounding_ into the vestibule, leaping up to plant huge paws on Carver’s chest. Carver jerked his head away seconds before getting a faceful of lolling tongue; he laughed and grabbed for the scruff of Trouble’s neck, trying to wrestle the big warhound playfully away.

“Down, you sorry mutt,” he said with a grin, one arm bracing Trouble’s (substantial) weight as he barked and licked happily at whatever parts of Carver he could reach. “Down, _down_.”

Trouble just gave another bark and scrabbled to keep Carver more or less pinned back against the door, tongue lolling, drool falling in loose silver ropes between them.

“…I can’t tell whether I’m supposed to be amused or put off my dinner,” a voice said.

Carver looked up from his play-fight with his brother’s dog, flushing. Anders stood in the great hall’s doorway, backlight by the golden light of the fire, sallow face cast completely in shadow. He had a quill pen stuck into the messy gather of his hair, and he was wearing a pair of Aidan’s old robes, the sleeves pushed up over his elbows, the shoulders and neck drooping around his skinny frame.

“Off, beast,” Carver muttered, affectionately shoving Trouble aside. Trouble dropped to his feet with a friendly bark, headbutting Carver’s thigh in obvious welcome before turning and loping back to the fire. Anders drew back to make way, but Trouble veered into his path and knocked hard into his legs anyway, making him stumble. The look Trouble threw over his shoulder as he settled by the hearth was pure wicked delight.

“I’m pretty sure your dog is going to kill me in my sleep someday,” Anders muttered.

Carver scrubbed at his face with the end of his sleeve, pushing away from the door and moving to join the other man. “He’s more like to sit on your head and try to thump your face with what’s left of his tail,” he said. “He doesn’t like you.”

Anders shot him a look. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I picked up on that.”

“Don’t take it personally. It’s because you’re a cat person. Trouble can always sense a cat person.”

“Maybe I should find myself a good mouser then,” Anders muttered, heading back toward the kitchen. He had an empty cup of tea clutched in his bony fingers, Carver noticed. There were ink stains on his hands, and dark shadows beneath his eyes. “It’d keep me from being outnumbered in this house, anyway.”

Without really being sure why—except it was good to actually _talk_ to someone for a change—Carver fell into step with him. “There’re some wild cats roving about the Gallows,” he said. “You could take one of them in if you’re serious.”

He froze, halfway down a step, at the _chilly_ look Anders shot him. “What?” Carver demanded. “What did I do _now_?”

“Yes,” Anders snarled, sailing into the kitchen and slamming down his teacup nearly hard enough to crack it. “Because walking right into the _Gallows_ where you enslave mages against their will—against all laws of common decency—is exactly what I’m going to do.”

Carver stomped down the last few steps, glowering. “Oh, are we really going to do this?” he demanded. “Already?”

“Doing what? Stand up for basic rights?” Anders waved a hand, taking in Carver’s simple sleeveless white tunic and leathers. “It’s a _shame_ you didn’t decide to parade yourself through Hightown wearing your full armor. How proud you must be to have that flaming sword on your chest, knowing exactly what it stands for.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Anders grabbed the kettle and practically threw it onto the cookstove, water sloshing over its brim. He gestured, eyes locked with Carver’s, and a flame jumped from his fingertips to light the fire. Then Anders crossed his arms over his skinny chest and gave Carver a belligerent look. As always, this had all escalated rather quickly.

Carver crossed his own arms and glowered right back. _Why_ had he thought visiting his family would be any more relaxing than mucking about the Gallows? When Anders didn’t say anything, he couldn’t help but prompt, “Well? Are you just going to stare at me, or do you have something more to say? Some quotes from your manifesto, maybe?”

“As if they’d fall on anything but deaf ears,” Anders said. There was an almost delicate tension to his anger, as if he were somewhere dangerously close to exhausted—wrung out. As the light from the fire flared higher, the shadows under his eyes and along the high ridge of his cheekbones stood out in starker relief.

Some of Carver’s indignant rage sputtered and faded. Anders…Anders didn’t look well.

“Anders,” he began, but Anders was still talking. Of _course_ he was.

“Or maybe,” Anders said, “I should be worried you’ll Silence me and drag me back to your prison. Isn’t that what you do now?” he demanded when Carver sucked in a furious breath. “You’re one of them; you’re a _Templar_. Whether or not you wore the uniform today, you’ve taken your vow and chosen your side.”

Carver took a step forward, hands balling into fists, ready to _shout_ his fury. But then, surprisingly— _astonishingly_ , really, even to him—he took a deep breath, another, _another_ , and swallowed back the cruel words he’d been scrambling to throw like spears straight at the mage’s heart.

This? Wasn’t a fight he wanted to have. What’s more, he sensed it wasn’t a fight _Anders_ wanted to have either. They’d just fallen into it as usual like two cats tossed in a sack, but it didn’t have to be like that. Not when they had a hell of a lot more in common than Carver had _ever_ had with any of his Templar “brothers”. “Anders,” he said, keeping his tone even by sheer force of will. “I was raised by an apostate father I loved. My older brother, my _twin sister_ , were both mages. I fought to keep them out of the Circle my _entire life_ ; why do you think I would suddenly stop fighting now?”

Anders opened his mouth to retort…then closed it. He frowned.

“I don’t dismiss you because I don’t agree with your cause,” Carver said. “I dismiss you because sometimes you’re an asshole about it. Maker knows I’m an asshole about all this too; I’ve had to be, to keep my family safe. But things are different now. I want to be different now. I’d like to start over, if it’s all the same to you.”

Slowly, Anders uncrossed his arms. His expression was still wary, but he was looking at Carver with more open interest—curiosity, as if he’d never really _seen_ Carver—than ever before. “You…” He swallowed. “You know, for a moment, I could almost see how you and Bethany were twins.”

“Yeah, well,” Carver said with a snort, kicking back one of the kitchen chairs and sinking into it. “I still don’t get what she saw in _you_.”

It was meant as a joke, though even as he said the words, Carver winced. Yeah, okay, maybe that wasn’t the best way to diffuse the situation. But Anders surprised him, laughing as he collapsed into the chair opposite Carver. His eyes warmed when he laughed, dark brows becoming an inverted V. For a moment, Carver really could see what Bethany had seen in Anders. “That makes two of us,” Anders said. He rubbed his thumb along one of the long scars in the table. “So. We’re going to try to talk to each other without yelling now?”

“If we make it five minutes,” Carver said with a crooked smile, “I’ll count it a win. You look like crap, you know.”

Anders laughed again. “ _That_ is you playing nice?”

“Hey,” Carver protested. “If you wanted _nice_ , you’d be talking to Aidan. When was the last time you ate? No, don’t tell me,” he added, standing again and going to poke through the pantry. “You’ll either lie, say you don’t remember, or give me the truth. Either way, I’m going to feel a very real impulse to cuff you upside the head.”

Anders twisted around in his chair, one arm over the back, brows still knit as he watched Carver pull meat from the larder. “You’re…going to feed me? Why are you going to feed me?”

“Because,” Carver said, “you’re my twin sister’s stupid Voice, my brother’s best friend, and a sometimes decent person. Besides, you look like you’re utter crap at taking care of yourself, and I guess I haven’t gotten out of the habit of caring. I used to cook all the time for Mom, Bethy and Aidan.”

“Hm.” At Carver’s curious look, Anders just shrugged. “You just never struck me at the nurturing sort, that’s all.”

Carver shrugged back, focusing on cracking eggs in the warmed skillet. “I didn’t think I’d ever struck you as anything except not-Bethany or not-Aidan,” he said. Anders was silent. That was really all the confirmation he needed. “I like taking care of people,” Carver admitted. “I like knowing they’re fed and warm and okay. That the roof over their head isn’t going to leak, and if someone breaks into the house in the middle of the night to try to…anything…that they’ve got a sword between them and the threat. _My_ sword.”

He looked down at the frying egg, shoulders hunching a little. It was weird talking to Anders without all the usual shouting. The two of them hadn’t gotten along from the moment they’d met…but then, Carver mused with a sigh, they’d _met_ when Bethany’s loss was still an open wound. It had taken a long, long time for Carver to be able to even think her name without curling in on himself in reflexive pain. He could only imagine how Anders felt.

Bethany. Maker. She’d been on his mind a lot today—ever since he’d chased Ser Mettin off that girl in the solar. That could have so easily been his sister.

That _was_ someone else’s sister.

“I want to help them, you know,” he said quietly.

“What? Who?”

He couldn’t look at Anders. It felt too strange to be admitting something like this to anyone who wasn’t family—Carver was far too used to only trusting people who shared his blood. But Anders… Even without the spirit of Justice inside him, Carver knew he could trust Anders. He _was_ family, in a way. Their lives were tangled together in a way that would never—should never—come undone. He’d die for the stupid healer; the least he could do was be honest with him. “The mages in the Circle,” he said. “It was one thing when it was all theoretical, and I was becoming a Templar to protect Aidan, but now…”

Carver scowled down at their food, moving by route to add chopped vegetables, bits of meat. “There are kids in there. And it’s not safe. They’re scared, and they need someone to get them out of there. I can do that.”

The silence stretched for so long that Carver almost thought Anders had left the room. He scowled as he flipped their omelets onto plates, trying to ignore the tension building deep in his chest again—the unhappy feeling of being locked out, excluded, again, as always.

Then a hand dropped to his shoulder, long fingers gripping in a tight squeeze, and Carver let out a shaky breath.

“You really want to help?” Anders asked quietly.

“I said I did, didn’t I?” He glanced over, meeting those brown eyes. Warm. _Hopeful_. Without any of the wariness or distance or anger Carver was so used to seeing there. “Yes,” he corrected himself, wetting his lips. “Yes, I really, really do. I may not always agree with the way you say it, but _what_ you say…you’re not wrong. Something has to be done.”

Anders let his hand drop. “You could be killed,” he pointed out. “If Meredith found out you were helping smuggle mages out of the Circle.”

Carver shoved a plate into Anders’ hands. “And you could be killed following my big brother around the Wounded Coast, shaking bandits down for gold and torn trousers. It’s a risk we’re both willing to take, yeah?”

Anders curled his fingers around the edge of his plate. “I still want to leave Aidan out of it,” he said. “It’s too dangerous, and he’s too…” He wet his lips. “Aidan’s too…”

 _You too, huh?_ Carver thought, heart giving a strangely painful lurch at the idea. “Yeah,” he agreed, gentler than he would have thought he was capable of. “He’s too important to risk. I know.”

“I didn’t mean to say _you_ weren’t,” Anders corrected quickly, sliding back into his chair.

Carver just snorted and took up the seat across from him. “Yes you did,” he said. “But it’s all right. It’s _true._ It’s always been like that. Bethany and Aidan are…were…” He dropped to his eyes to his plate, hating the sudden swelling of emotion that still struck him hard across the face, like a blow he’d never learn to see coming. “Something special.”

Anders was quiet for a long, awkward moment. “You _are_ a little like her sometimes, you know,” he finally offered.

Carver snorted again, looking up. “Oh, shut your gob and eat your eggs,” he said, one corner of his mouth kicking up into a smile. He didn’t need anyone to lie and say he was special; he just needed to know he was doing something to protect the people who _were_. “And start laying out the details. How am I going to know when and where to meet you with the mage kids?”

And the two of them fell into the surprisingly easy—and almost friendly—work of plotting revolution, the late afternoon melting into twilight before slipping gently into night.


	31. Aveline

“You have your orders,” Aveline said, fighting to keep the weary annoyance out of her voice. The two guardsmen gave a chorus of (suspiciously sulky) assent, but she let it go, waiting until they had filed out of her office before letting her shoulders droop. _Maker_.

It had been a long day. The newest recruits were settling in poorly and squabbles had broken out over…pretty much everything possible. The berth. The duty roster. The void-taken order in which they took their dinner. Being guard-captain was beginning to feel more and more like taking over duties as den mother, and she and Wesley had chosen careers over children for a _very good reason_.

She was one petty argument away from tying them in a sack and tossing them into the Waking Sea.

The clock at her left elbow gave a soft _ding_ , echoed a beat later by the tolling of the Chantry bells. Aveline raised her head to consider the numbers on the antique timepiece—a gift from Varric her last name day. Scrolled across the top in a fine etching were the words: _So you have one less excuse to miss a game of Wicked Grace_. The sight of it made her smile a little, even as fresh pain pounded behind her eyes. He was persistent, she’d give him that. Somehow, every couple of weeks, Varric managed to herd the lot of them together for a few hands. If she didn’t head out the door now, she’d run late.

Aveline sighed and rubbed at her throbbing temples. Through the arrow-slit windows, the last peel of the Chantry bells was dying away, fading beneath the constant hive-like buzz of the Viscount’s palace. Just outside her door, she could hear the beginnings of a _new_ squabble brewing, Maker take them all.

 _What are the odds_ , Aveline thought with a little sigh, _of my friends being better behaved than my guards?_ With Fenris, Anders, and Carver at the table—not to mention the pirate wench there to goad them on—it seemed as likely as the Qunari ensconced in Kirkwall’s docks making sail to Seheron.

“Oi!” a female voice snapped. Recruit Jenner, from the tone. “You can’t go in to see the captain. _I’m_ here to see the captain!”

“Well you can very well wait your turn, can’t you?” Darrin. She’d know that nasal Marcher drawl anywhere. “I’ve got real business with her.”

“The void you do! You’re here to complain about your bunkmate; you’ve been bleating about it fit to be stuck for _days_ now.”

“And _you’re_ here for something better? Probably whining about catching dockside duty this roster, aye?”

There was a short, telling silence. “I don’t like being near them damned oxmen,” Jenner muttered. “Give me the creeps.”

“Maybe one’ll stick you with his horns,” Darrin retorted nastily. “Then a bunk’ll free up and we’ll both be taken care of.”

Aveline was just dropping her palms to the face of her desk and pushing herself up—annoyance ringing louder than her headache for a blessed moment—when a third voice made her freeze mid-rise.

“Ho now, you two—what are you decorating the captain’s door for?”

_Donnic._

Jenner and Darrin both began to answer at once, but Donnic cut them off before they’d gotten more than a handful of words out. “The captain doesn’t have time to play to children and fools,” he said in a surprisingly even voice—though even a room away, Aveline could hear the whip crack of authority. She rose the rest of the way and moved quietly toward the cracked open door, heart giving a ridiculous, girly little lurch. “Jenner, you know your duty.”

Jenner grumbled a protest, but quickly stumbled into a, “Yes, ser,” at whatever look the senior guardsman shot her.

“Darrin, you’ve barely given it a fortnight. Put an effort into settling in. If you’re still having trouble by the end of the month, come back to see me or Kara— _we’re_ in charge of room assignments for a reason. The captain has more important matters pressing on her to deal with the likes of you. Now, if that’s all…”

There was a weighty silence, and Aveline would have given anything to see Donnic’s face at that moment. Were his eyes kind? Quietly disapproving? Fierce, the way he could sometimes get when facing the worst of the city’s repeat offenders?

If she let herself, she could trip along through all sorts of daydreams. She could… _flutter_ …at the mere thought of him. Maker, how embarrassing.

She leaned her forehead against the door, cheeks flushed, and listened to the quiet chorus of “Yes, ser”s. There was a scuff of boots as the junior recruits moved down the hall, and Aveline’s lips curved into a faint smile as she imagined the looks they cast over their shoulder at the big, brave, kind, clever, _good_ man who stood to defend her even when they both knew she was well and truly strong enough not to need that defense… Who saw to her comfort because he cared, not because he saw her as weak… Who…

And Aveline nearly went spilling across the flagstones when he _opened the door_ with her still leaning like a lovesick fool against it.

She straightened with a muffled curse, catching herself on the doorframe before she went sprawling inelegantly at his feet. Donnic froze on the other side of the open door, eyes gone wide. He took a reflexive step back, then forward again, reaching for her arm. His hand froze before he made contact however, as if he’d been hit by an ice spell, and they just… _hung_ there in a painfully awkward tableau, Aveline half-pitched forward, Donnic half-reaching for her.

He snatched his hand back when Aveline straightened. His cheeks were almost as red as hers felt. “Guard-captain,” Donnic said. “I apologize. I had not realized you were so close.”

 _You mean to say you had not realized I was eavesdropping like a girl in pigtails following on the heels of her first crush?_ What must he be thinking of her now? “No harm done,” Aveline said as briskly as she could manage. “I was merely on my way, ah, out. To the Hanged Man. My friends are hosting a game of Wicked Grace and I—” _Stop rambling, you ninny_. “Well. I am going.”

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside quickly.

Aveline took a step forward, then hesitated. “Unless…you needed me?”

“No,” he said, and she hated the way her heart sank at that. It wasn’t that she wanted him to need her. Or wanted him at all. Or— Or—

Or, _bother_.

“Very well then,” Aveline said, trying for quiet dignity. It was usually so easy for her, but something about the kind-eyed guardsman sent her thoughts into a flurry whenever he was near. She felt her cheeks begin to heat again and cursed her pale, freckled skin. Maker, what he must think of her. “If that’s all, then.”

“Ah, yes,” Donnic said. “Thank you. For your time, that is.”

“I didn’t give you any.” Which, thankfully, was enough of a spark to prompt her to add, “If you didn’t need me, why were you coming to my office?”

Now it was Donnic’s turn to flush. He looked _adorable_ when he did it, too, color creeping up scruffy cheeks, lashes flickering as he dropped his gaze. She hadn’t noticed a man’s eyelashes since Wesley had first caught her eye across a wide practice field years ago—and winked at her, bold as anything. Donnic was bold, too, but he wasn’t flirtatious the way Wesley had been. It would be so much easier if he was; she was driving herself crazy wondering whether the looks he sometimes cast her meant he was interested or just…dutiful.

Dedicated to his post.

 _Devoted_ , and Maker, he was talking while she was off chasing dreams like a love-addled ninny.

“…next week’s sessions. But I could take care of it, if you’d like.”

 _Take care of what?_ Aveline hated that she was so twisted up and turned around by bloody _feelings_ that she was failing at her job. If he was just horrible and ugly and completely unappealing, then maybe she would have been able to do more than moon over his bloody stupid face and actually know what he had been trying to say. But of course it couldn’t be that simple, and of course he couldn’t be that straightforward, and of course she was left absolutely swinging in the wind with no idea how to find solid ground again.

And she couldn’t admit that she’d missed everything he’d said because she’d been captivated by his _eyelashes_. She just couldn’t.

“Very well,” Aveline said abruptly, stepping around him in curt dismissal. She needed to flee the battlefield; clearly she had already lost everything but her pride. “I trust you will see to it, then.”

“Guard-captain,” Donnic said as she moved stiffly up the steps.

“Donnic,” Aveline murmured, soft as a whisper, heart giving another little flourish. She passed through the door and into the Viscount’s main hall, hurrying past the small knots of courtiers and noblemen on her way to the huge double doors. Her cheeks were fiery red—she could feel them burning like twin coals—and more than one courtier turned to watch her stalk past. A soft titter rose in her wake, and she could only imagine how she looked—red from the top of her head all the way down to the speckled arc of her collarbone.

She squeezed her eyes shut and hurried her pace, moving at a quick march down the high steps and across the square. The day was slipping smoothly into evening, twilight lingering in forgotten corners as women in fine silks swept past, their skirts rustling, their steps graceful, their thoughts unruffled. _They_ would know what to do with a man, Aveline thought grimly. Even if they wouldn’t know which end of a sword to grip, at least they would never find their tongues tied around members of the opposite sex.

They’d never ache, and yearn, and despair.

She dropped her gaze and hurried past, down the steps into Lowtown, through the familiar crowds. It was night here already—anything as gentle as _twilight_ left for the lordlings in their fine estates—and the gangs would soon be out in full force. 

Aveline rested one hand on the hilt of her blade as she strode toward the Hanged Man, daring one of Sharpe’s men to just _try_ to stop her. Irritatingly, a line from the Ballad of Aveline wended its way through her thoughts as she tightened her grip, echoing the harsh drum of her heels:

_For I am loved by no one but the blade; death be my husband, and grief the offspring of our hard union._

Bloody _fucking_ Orlesian poetry.

She slammed into the bar, teeth baring when Isabela looked up with a raucous cheer. The pirate was already deep into her cups, teetering on the back of Hawke’s chair, one bare thigh slung provocatively over his shoulder. Fenris sat to his right, eyes narrowed dangerously. “Oi there, big girl,” Isabela called, waving her tankard; ale sloshed over the rim and barely missed spattering Hawke’s shoulders. “Finally got your metal britches hoisted high enough to join us?”

Aveline snarled.

“Bela,” Hawke murmured. One big hand lifted to cover her thigh in gentle warning. Fenris’s eyes narrowed further.

“Careful there, Rivaini,” Varric agreed with a husky laugh. He shuffled cards so quickly they were a fluttering blur, then began to pass them out—including a hand for one of the few empty chairs remaining at the long table. “Push it too far, and good money is on Aveline handing you your own arse.”

“You _always_ say that,” Isabela complained, shifting around to pout down at the dwarf.

“And I always prove him right.” Aveline moved around the table to sit in the chair Varric had saved for her—away from Isabela and near Anders. Varric met her eye as she sat, smile crooked, one brow slightly arched. The message was, as always, crystal clear: _help me keep the peace and maybe we’ll all make it out of here alive_. “Ho there, Anders.”

He tipped his chin in welcome, visibly trying not to watch as Fenris finally reached across Hawke and shoved Isabela’s scandalously bare thigh off his…lover’s? What to call the horrific mess that was Hawke and Fenris?...shoulder. “Aveline. Having a good day?”

“I’ve had worse,” she said dryly.

“Hm.” He wasn’t really paying attention, of course. She’d learned long ago that there was little chance of Anders actually listening when Hawke was near. It was a fixation. An obsession. A misplaced longing, and she couldn’t see how it would end in anything but heartbreak. Anyone with eyes in their head could see how Hawke felt about Fenris.

Anyone with _sense_ would realize just how impossible the whole thing was.

But she supposed that, lately, she was the last person who could fault someone for lacking sense when it came to love.

Aveline sighed and unbuckled her scabbard, slinging Wesley’s shield over the back of her chair and leaning her sword against the table. Isabela had finally been shoved away by Fenris—who was _still_ glowering, as if he had anything to be jealous of—and Merrill was nearly halfway to sliding out of her seat as she made room for the pirate to perch. Hawke had his chin resting on one fist, eyes bright and reassuredly _happy_ as he laughed at something Varric had said. Fenris muttered beneath his breath and dropped a hand down—taking Hawke’s beneath the lip of the table if the other man’s flush and sudden, shy smile was any judge.

Next to her, Anders shifted and grumbled irritably. Fenris must have caught the noise, eyes flashing as he turned his head to glare across the table. Anders’ grumble immediately transmogrified into a low snarl. _Maker_.

“Are we set for this hand?” Aveline demanded before either of them could escalate shared glares into something more. She swooped up her hand, making a point of fanning the cards out. Anything to keep the two cats from hissing and clawing at each other.

“That eager to lose, big girl?” Isabela cooed, but Aveline ignored her. She was determined to set a good example tonight.

Varric snorted, gathering his own hand. “We are if we’re sure Carver won’t be joining us. How about it, Hawke—will Junior be stomping through those doors any moment now?”

Hawke looked away from Fenris, delicate flush still staining his cheeks. “Maker, how would I know? Carver’s taken to blowing in and out of the Gallows like a spring storm. I’ve just learned to brace for a change in the weather.”

“He’ll be here soon,” Anders interrupted, sounding suspiciously certain—and just as suspiciously unconcerned. As if Anders and Carver weren’t at each other’s’ throats almost as often as Anders and Fenris. “He just had to finish shadowing Mettin’s rounds before he could get away.”

_And you know this…how?_

Varric hummed a breath, one brow arching when he met Aveline’s gaze. She could read her own speculative confusion echoed back in his eyes. “Well then,” he said, theatrically folding his cards again. “It appears we must wait.”

“Wait for what?” Carver said, shoving through the growing crowd. He’d stripped out of his armor, Aveline noted, and was dressed once more in his old homespun undershirt and leather jerkin. It fit tighter than it had when they’d first met, leather straining over muscle. Flickering candlelight caught the valleys and hills of his bared arms, biceps flexing naturally as he grabbed a chair and spun it around.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Across the table, Isabela leaned over Merrill and wolf-whistled. “Looking _good_ , Junior,” she teased. “Isn’t he, Merrill?”

Carver just scoffed. “Please don’t call me that,” he said, jerking his chin toward his brother in greeting before offering Merrill a smile. “Hi, Merrill.”

“Oh, hello!” she said brightly, but she was more than a little distracted trying to keep Isabela from toppling over on top of her.

Anders chuckled and tipped his head toward Carver, who had taken the empty spot at his right— _despite_ the waiting seat to Merrill’s left. Curious. “You’re drenched. Did you swim your way from the Gallows?” He reached out to flick at an unruly damp cowlick.

Carver batted away his hand with a snort. “You’re just sore because _some_ of us prefer not to smell like piss and sewage.”

“ _Some_ of us are too busy to worry about such trivial things as vanity.”

“ _Some_ of us know exactly how much effort you waste getting your whiskers to grow to the exact right level of apostate chic.”

Anders looked around the table, hands spread dramatically, thin lips curled into a crooked grin. “He lies,” he said. “I’m naturally this appealing.”

Carver laughed; everyone else _stared_.

It wasn’t that they were getting along as if they were actually friends, Aveline decided, shooting a look toward Hawke—Hawke, who looked just as stunned as the rest of them, dark brows arched in visible surprise. As much of a change as it was from their old, familiar bickering, she was willing to believe that they’d somehow managed to find a way through their myriad differences to their obvious points of commonality. It just _made sense_ that they would get on if they could only get past themselves enough to do it.

But seeing Anders teasing, hearing that unfamiliar light, lilting note in his voice…it was so different, so unlike the Anders she had known that she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to make of it. He almost sounded like a different person, dry sarcasm wending its way through a voice that was usually heavy with memory and purpose and frustrated longing.

Seeing him _smile_ for someone other than Hawke? Hearing Carver _laugh_?

She just…didn’t know what to make of it all.

“Well then,” Varric said, the first to recover. Carver had started to clam up again, shoulders hunching forward as he became aware of all their eyes on him. Anders stared down hard at the table as if trying to puzzle out the meaning of the graffiti carved into its ancient wood. The unexpectedly light, easy note between them was fading like a guttered candle. “Now that we have a full table, should we start?”

“Don’t delay on my account,” Carver said, familiar dissatisfied grumble back.

“Hey, Carver,” Hawke said earnestly. He leaned against the table, grey eyes wide and serious; his dark brows lowered when Carver kept his eyes fixed on his cards, cheeks pinked, expression twisted in a glower. “Carver,” he tried again. Then, in a teasing singsong when his brother just grunted in response: “Carver. Carver. Carver.”

“ _What?_ ” Carver finally demanded, jerking his chin to _glare_ at his brother.

Hawke offered a beatific smile. “Your face looks like butt,” he said brightly, and the _noise_ Carver made was half snorting laughter, half affront, and all of eleven years old. Carver flung his cards at his brother with an aggrieved sputter, but Hawke just dodged the fluttering fall, knocking into Fenris’s side with a laugh. Fenris made a surprised noise, then subtly shifted so he was curled more naturally toward Hawke, eyes darting between the two brothers as Carver looked for something else to chuck.

Anders silently offered a wizened bit of elfroot and Carver threw it at his laughing brother’s head with a muttered grumble. Fenris caught it mid-air and flung it _back_ even harder, teeth flashing in something that could have been a smile.

“Oh, no fair,” Carver protested, even as Anders snagged a bit of leftover cheese and sent it winging toward Fenris-and-Hawke.

“Oi!” Hawke laughed, and the battle was on in earnest.

It was so ridiculous, so childish, so very much like what Aveline imagined having siblings must be like that she couldn’t help the smile that stretched her face. Merrill giggled into her hand as Isabela pet her hair lightly, watching Hawke’s face with an indulgent smile. At the head of the table, Varric’s lips twitched, some of the tired shadow leaving his face as he watched over them all.

This strange, raucous, perfectly imperfect little family of theirs.

Happy, for the moment. Happier, perhaps, than she could ever remember seeing them. Even Fenris barked a husky laugh as the entire table devolved into the childish fight, missiles flung back and forth, insults barbed without any real sting, mood swinging bright and light and _wonderful_. As if there was no threat of violence hanging over the city; as if there had been no heartbreak in their past. As if, for one perfect moment, there was hope for them after all.

 _Let it stay this way_ , Aveline thought, blocking a torn-off hunk of bread Isabela tossed at her head, pretending to be cross when all she wanted to do was laugh. _Please Maker, just let the world leave us to enjoy this while we can._


	32. Aidan

He couldn’t remember ever feeling happier.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to be so light inside. Father wasn’t here to share in it. Bethany was lost and left to rot along the road from Lothering. Carver had willingly given himself over to a life of hardship and addiction to keep _him_ safe, Varric had lost a brother down in the Deep Roads (no matter that Bartrand was still alive), Isabela had lost a ship, Aveline a husband, Merrill a clan, Anders his Voice…

They were all marked, somehow, by their losses. In Fenris’s case, the scars were all too literal. And yet, tonight, together, the Hanged Man was nearly aglow with their combined light.

_Friendship is such a strange alchemy_ , Aidan thought, pressing his knee subtly against Fenris’s. The other man had left his arm resting along the back of Aidan’s chair, close and yet not touching. Near and yet too far. Tonight, even he seemed more relaxed than usual, the occasional smile breaking up his tense expression. He cast Aidan a glance out of the corner of his eyes, lips turned subtly up at the corners, and Aidan’s stomach clenched in reflexive pleasure even as he ducked his head to hide a ridiculously shy return smile.

Yes, he thought, letting one hand drop to brush Fenris’s knee in question, there was something special about tonight. Something that almost made all their collective heartbreak worthwhile.

“How am I going home alone tonight when the Hawkes aren’t? That is _deeply_ unfair,” Isabela sighed, leaning back into her chair. Her voice had gone low and loose with one too many mugs of ale, and there was a wicked gleam in her eyes that had Aidan jerking his hands back up where everyone could see them. He _knew_ that look. “You’d say I was always willing and able, aye, Varric?”

Varric shuffled the cards again. “I am not getting involved in whatever you’re cooking up, Rivaini,” he said easily. “I prefer my head where it is. It’s served me well there for years.”

She blew out a boozy breath. “Oh, you’re no fun. Big Girl, _you’ll_ play along, won’t you?”

“To say you’re _willing_ ,” Aveline said dryly, “is like saying the ocean is wet.”

Isabela waggled her brows. “Oooh, but it is _so_ much more fun wet, wouldn’t you say?”

“ _Ugh._ ” Aveline threw down her cards and pushed away from the table. “I’m out.”

“Wait,” Merrill said, head cocked to the side. “What did she mean? Anders, what did—”

Anders dropped his head down onto his folded arms. At his side, Carver was making a curious face, somewhere between disgusted and intrigued by the turn in conversation. Aidan could have told his brother that it wasn’t worth encouraging Isabela. (Despite the fact that Aidan himself nearly _always_ played along.)

“But Anders,” Merrill persisted, eyes a little too wide and innocent to be real. When she blinked, Aidan could practically hear the sound of her doe-long lashes sweeping the air. Merrill was sweet and kind and adorable and _evil_ , and he knew better than to believe she didn’t realize exactly what she was provoking. The little demon. “What _did_ Isabela mean? Oh, I never understand!”

Carver, as always, blindly stumbled into her trap. “Well,” he began. Anders tilted his head to look up at Carver, both brows arched in warning. “Um, that is to say, I _believe_ she meant that— She was just implying—” His little brother was growing increasingly red as every pair of eyes turned on him; Isabela’s were gleaming with dark amusement. At Aidan’s side, Fenris gave a bemused chuff of laughter. “Anders, help me out here?”

“Oh no,” Anders said, straightening. “You’re on your own here.” His thin lips were twisted into a wide, bemused smile. Most of his hair had come loose from its sloppily tied queue, and his cheeks were flushed with one too many drinks. The way he tipped against Carver’s shoulder, digging a teasing elbow into his side, made Carver flush and Aidan smile.

Whatever had caused that unlikely friendship to bloom, he was glad for it. It gave Anders another port in the storm, another avenue for his worrying obsessions, and Carver—

Well. Carver had always been happier when he felt needed. And Maker only knew Anders, literally at war with his inner demons, needed more than most.

Aidan leaned back, watching as his friends tossed jokes and insults back and forth, Isabela taunting, Carver rising to the bait, raucous laughter breaking like waves over their heads again and again, until their banter took on a rhythm all its own. The game was long since winding down, but Varric still occasionally passed out cards and took half-hearted bets; each hand was punctuated by playful jeers and warm-hearted sniping.

He sighed, feeling his heart swell in his chest—then stutter to a stop when Fenris leaned in close and murmured hot against his ear: “I want you.”

_Maker._

Aidan could feel his cheeks flaming red in an instant, blush crashing through him even as his stomach clenched in aching heat. He sucked in a shallow breath, chest suddenly too tight for more, and subtly tipped his chin toward Fenris in silent question.

Fenris’s lips brushed Aidan’s earlobe. His breath was slow and even, stirring the dark curls at his temples. That arm that had been oh-so casually flung against the back of Aidan’s chair for the last half-hour was pressed closer now—near enough that he could feel it against the curve of his shoulders—biceps clenched tight tight tight as if Fenris were holding himself still as a marble statue.

As if Fenris were afraid of what he’d do _to Aidan_ if he relaxed his muscles even the smallest bit.

Aidan sucked in another harsh breath, fighting the sound that wanted to burst out of his chest. He was hard, so blindingly fast it was its own sort of agony. His friends were still snipping playfully at each other, but the evening had taken on a shimmering haze as his blood burned and his heart raced. He could…he could _feel_ Fenris just a few inches away. Not physically—at least, not just physically—but down to his blood and bones. Down to his core. He swore he could sense the tensed coil of his muscles, the fiercely leashed desire, the _possessive_ fire that flared higher and higher every time _that Maker-damned mage_ looked at _his_ Aidan with a covetous light in his amber eyes.

It shouldn’t have been possible to feel so much of Fenris’s desire and fury, love and fear. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not before a true bond had taken place. And yet

And _yet_

He was drowning all at once in the slow burn of fear-and-hope-and-need-and-hate rising bitter and sweet in the back of his throat. He was losing himself in the awareness of ever-conflicted emotion and lust and desperate, painful longing coiled in the controlled steel of Fenris’s body. Flickering dark in his green eyes.

_Maker_. It was nearly enough to drive him mad.

Aidan let out his breath slowly, lungs burning, and reached beneath the table to rest a hand again on Fenris’s thigh. It was hard as iron bark beneath his fingers, and he could feel the answering quiver of muscle as he slowly rubbed his thumb in a soothing circle. Fenris’s stuttering breath was enough to make his own heart race recklessly fast. “Yes,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the sight of his friends ringed about the table; focusing instead all of himself on the elf at his side. On his Voice. “I am yours.”

_I am yours._

He could feel everything in Fenris go frighteningly still. And then, without warning, Fenris was jerking to his feet. Six pairs of eyes swung toward him in startled question; Aidan remained staring blankly ahead, cheeks flaming. “I am finished,” Fenris said, tossing his final hand of cards into the center of the table. They scattered across scarred wood, face-up, showing a winning flush. Only Varric seemed to notice. “You may continue without me.”

“Oh _may_ we?” Anders muttered sourly, brows drawing fiercely together.

Aidan stood. “I’ll walk you back,” he offered. “Hightown’s not been the safest lately. What with, um, all the gangs and all.” He couldn’t meet Isabela’s eyes, though he could see her cheerful smile morph into a leer. By her side, Merrill gave an obvious encouraging gesture, as if to say: _Congratulations on the sex you may or may not be having!_ Which was sweet, but not exactly what he wanted to be thinking about with Fenris coiled like a snake at his side and his brother _right there_.

Aidan shifted from foot to foot, feeling awkward and far too obvious. Aveline just shook her head, wry—though from the way she went all moon-eyed around Guardsman Donnic, it wasn’t like she had any room to judge.

“Very well,” Fenris said, as if the offer had been anything more than a poorly disguised excuse. He stepped back, reaching for his massive sword, ten times better than Aidan at keeping the ping-ponging of his emotions off his face.

Anders stood abruptly. “I’ll come too,” he said, setting his jaw when Fenris turned a glower on him. He refused to meet Aidan’s eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to—”

His words ended on a yelp and he crumpled back into his chair mid-rise. He jerked around to stare at Carver, who was looking too-innocent. Aidan knew his brother; Carver never looked innocent unless he was guilty of something.

_Thank the Maker for obnoxious little brothers_ , Aidan thought, meeting his brother’s eyes. Carver just shrugged a shoulder and turned to ask Anders a question, distracting the other man for the few seconds it took Aidan to grab his short-staff and wave his goodbyes. Isabela waggled her brows at him and Merrill repeated her earlier, encouraging gesture. Varric simply shook his head and turned toward a grimly amused Aveline.

“We have the worst friends,” Aidan said under his breath as he and Fenris moved toward the door, not meaning a word of it. “Really, the absolute worst. I’m beginning to think we should petition the Viscount for a new social circle. We’re well off now thanks to the Deep Roads—we can probably afford it, right?”

Fenris just snorted and dropped a hand to Aidan’s elbow, firmly guiding him out of the Hanged Man.

The Lowtown evening was hot and muggy, only the occasional breeze offering any sort of relief. Across the flat city rooftops, deep in the heart of Hightown, the Chantry bell began to toll the hour: twelve deep peels echoing through the quiet night.

“Maker, it’s hot,” Aidan said, pausing just outside the door. He drew in a breath, filling his lungs with the sweltering stink of fish and garbage. Across the cobbled street, one of the Hanged Man’s patrons leaned against the wall and lost the contents of his stomach. “Do you want to head—”

His words were lost on a surprised yelp—quickly muffled—as Fenris tightened the grip on his elbow and yanked him toward the nearest alleyway. He was shoved up against the crumbling wall with barely a _by your leave_ , six feet of elf crowding close a breath later—sharp hipbones pressing up against his, calloused palms flat against the wall either side of his head, silver-blue flickers bathing the scant breath between their earnest faces in unearthly light.

Aidan could _feel_ the lyrium of those charged markings sizzling against his skin; he shivered and arched closer, jaw dropped on a silent gasp.

“Hawke,” Fenris murmured, breath hot against his lips. He leaned close—close enough to rest their foreheads together, silver hair brushing Aidan’s temples—and shuddered, tips of his gauntlets digging into crumbling brick and stone. Anchoring himself? Keeping himself from grabbing for Aidan? Maker, he hoped not. “I… You are intolerable.”

He knew better than to take offense. “I know,” Aidan murmured, eyes focusing unerringly on Fenris’s mouth, so near his own.

“I cannot _bear_ —”

“I know,” he said again. This was familiar ground—Fenris caught between desire and restraint. Aidan wished there was some way he could reassure him that what he was feeling was all right. That even if they gave in and cemented their bond, it wouldn’t be shrugging off the yoke of slavery only to willfully burden himself with another. That no matter what, Aidan would keep the promise he had made in the Fade so many years ago:

He would never, ever force anything on Fenris. He would never, ever hurt him.

If Fenris would just relent enough to allow the bond to form, he would _know_ that. He would be able to read Aidan’s emotions as easily as schoolchildren read their letters and gain indisputable proof of the power _he_ held over _Aidan_. He would see how well they fit together when they stopped fighting against it.

But Aidan didn’t have the words to make that clear, and as much as Fenris wanted him—and Maker, but Fenris wanted him—he wasn’t sure they would ever bridge the treacherous waters of his fears.

“Fenris,” Aidan breathed, reaching out to press a palm over the other man’s racing heart. He wanted to kiss him more than anything, but he couldn’t be the one to instigate. He had to be careful. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

Fenris let out a rough breath—very nearly a growl. Aidan couldn’t resist the impulse to tip back his head in blatant invitation. Wasn’t that the way wolves showed submission? By baring their throats?

And besides: just because he couldn’t make the first move didn’t mean he couldn’t encourage Fenris to.

“Mine.” The word was little more than a rumble in Fenris’s chest, low and dangerous. Aidan shivered, eyes slipping shut, and bit his lower lip. He was caged by Fenris’s body, trapped against the old brick of Hanged Man. _Hard_ , and getting harder with each passing second as Fenris very slowly, very deliberately pressed closer.

One trim leg pushed nearly-rough between Aidan’s thighs. A gauntleted hand pressed against his shoulder, shoving him back against the wall. And the hot gust of his breath—serrated, coming just a little too fast—swept across his exposed neck, dipping lower, lower, lower…then pausing, as if Fenris were testing his response.

He gasped when Fenris suddenly fisted the front of his tunic, rocking his thigh up _hard_ —grinding against the hot jut of Aidan’s cock. “ _Fenris!_ ”

“Mine,” he snarled again, close to Aidan’s ear. The word was chased by the hot swipe of his tongue, swirling along the shell of Aidan’s ear before his teeth closed none-too-gently over the tip. _Fuck_ , it felt incredible; Aidan jerked forward with a muffled shout, barely aware they were just off a public street. Anyone could come stumbling past their alley and see them. They were completely exposed.

That shouldn’t have made his breath catch in his chest. That shouldn’t have made him hard. _Harder_.

He turned his face to catch Fenris’s mouth, swallowing the noise he made with a hungry gasp. Fenris kissed like he was running out of time, air, life, everything. It was sharp and hard and frenetic and so sweet it _hurt_ —as if Fenris was so scared Aidan would be snatched away at any moment that he had to hold on tight with both fists.

“Please,” Aidan murmured into his mouth, stroking against the frantic thrust of his tongue. His hands slid across spiky armor and dark leather, searching for skin, and ah, Maker, he would give anything for there to be nothing between them, for this to be _for real_.

For Fenris to catch his jaw between his gauntleted palms and murmur, “ _Now_ , Aidan.”

And then Aidan thought dizzily, scratching his nails down the back of Fenris’s neck, he could let go of the iron control he kept on his magic. And then Fenris would take him in his fist—or flip him around to slam him against the wall, fingers pressing along the curve of his ass—or grab his trembling thighs and lift him onto his cock and—

“Please,” he gasped, head falling back, utterly consumed by the thought. He could feel the threat of the bond humming between them, everything inside of him straining like a leashed dragon for Fenris, Fenris, always Fenris. His skin was bright with electricity and blue-white light cast them both in a brilliant corona and fuck, _fuck_ , he’d go crazy if he couldn’t have this—Fenris grinding hard against him, clothed cock against clothed cock, teeth sharp, mouth hungry, hands fisting in his hair, then moving restlessly down his chest, then grabbing his ass, then, then, then.

“ _Aidan_.”

“I want to hear you come,” Aidan said, and Fenris’s _growl_ was nearly enough to send him toppling over—inexperienced and yearning and lit up inside like a bonfire, every spark threatening a conflagration as Fenris gripped his hips and slammed him back against the rough-hewn wall, hips jerking hard between the cradle of Aidan’s thighs. He raked down the exposed arch of his neck with a possessive, desperate:

“ _Mine_.”

Aidan moaned, then cried out sharply at the feel of Fenris’s teeth sinking into his flesh. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, scrabbling at those strong shoulders, hips falling easily into the frantic rhythm of their thrusts. That chord between them that represented their bond seemed to throb with each drag of their cocks, and he thought, dizzily, hopefully: _Maybe this is it. Maker, finally._

“Fenris,” Aidan began on a shaky cry.

And, “ _Yes_ ,” hissed out against his skin, followed by the sharp drag of his teeth.

Permission granted, or was it just lust talking? He was a clenched fist; he was so hard, slick against his smalls, that any ragged thrust could be his last. Andraste take them, they were practically rutting in the street, wild as animals, tearing at each other as if they were fighting to merge their bodies together…and he still didn’t know what Fenris had meant by _yes_.

“What,” he said, only to be interrupted by a startled—

“Ah! Maker’s balls!”

—from somewhere infuriatingly nearby.

Aidan broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, turning his head against the cool stone and closing his eyes. The tenor of Fenris’s growl changed, went from predatory to furious when Anders (of _course_ it had to be Anders) added, “Knickerweasles. I’m never going to unsee that. I—are you always so bloody violent? Did you hurt him? Aidan, are you all right?”

_Go. Away._

But Fenris was pulling back already, all tense muscles and frustrated fury. His teeth flashed white in the dim. “ _Mage_ ,” he snarled.

Aidan lifted his head, half tempted to let this all play out—but no, that was just sexual frustration talking. “Fenris,” he said, reaching out, but Fenris shook him off with a warning noise, eyes fixed on Anders. For his part, Anders was gripping his staff, jealousy and hurt and fury and worry and so many things Aidan couldn’t read—didn’t want to read—clear on his angular face. The companionable buzz from earlier in the evening was long burned away, leaving familiar scar tissue in its wake.

Leaving Anders and Fenris facing each other down in an alleyway, like dogs fighting over scraps. And Aidan was pretty sure what _he_ was in this situation.

“Do you have something to say, abomination?” Fenris demanded, reaching back for the hilt of his blade.

Anders narrowed his eyes. “Not to you,” he spat. “Not until you act less like an animal.”

Aidan grabbed for Fenris’s arm again, speaking quickly over his furious hiss. “Could we not do this tonight?” he said. “Could we—”

“Stay out of this, Aidan,” Anders said grimly, even as Fenris jerked his sword free.

“The _void_ I will. Both of you _stop_.”

Someone moved behind Anders, swimming out from the shadows with a worried scowl. Carver. “What’s going on?” he demanded, peering over Anders’ shoulder. “Aidan, are you… Oh.”

_Oh_ was right. Aidan could see Carver processing the scene quickly, taking in the warning flicker of blue light pouring off of Fenris…off of Anders…bathing the alley in an unearthly glow. The tension was heavy in the air—a special sort of jealous fury that had been growing bit by bit by bit ever since just before the Deep Roads, exploding out now in a fireball that would take them all out with it.

Unless they did something drastic to stop it.

Carver took it all in within a blink. Then he caught Aidan’s eye as Fenris began to jerk free, as Anders began to lift his staff, one brow raising in question. _Follow my lead_. Then he shoved rudely forward—in front of Anders, stepping directly into Fenris’s path as if he weren’t courting a fist through his chest—and demanded in his best snotty younger brother voice:

“Oh, well, isn’t this just bloody great? You don’t think catching you snogging in an alley _once_ wasn’t enough? Are you _trying_ to ruin what was left of my life?”

As distractions went? It was ingenious. And it was all Aidan could do not to laugh.

Fenris pulled up short, startled, and glanced over his shoulder at Aidan as if to ask, _wait, is he for real?_ Anders cocked his head and gave Carver a curious look. Aidan, for his part, made sure his expression gave nothing away. “Stop being so dramatic,” he snapped back, playing the part with relish. It had been a long, long time since they’d scrapped and swiped at each other like bad-tempered mabari, but he remembered the aggrieved older brother tone, and the words came to him as easily as if Varric had written the script. “You barely saw anything.”

Carver gave an affronted snort. The exchange seemed to have succeeded in knocking both Anders and Fenris off their collision course. They were looking between Aidan and Carver with twin expressions of baffled curiosity, spiking fury giving way to bemused interest.

_Enjoying the show?_

“ _Stop being so dramatic_ ,” Carver mimicked in a hilariously high falsetto, and they were all of nine and fourteen again, back in that dusty Denerim marketplace with Daveth trying to slink out of sight. “So, what, you’re saying this is something you get up to all the time? Is snogging in random alleyways just what you _do_ now?”

Aidan crossed his arms. “Why?” he demanded. “Jealous?”

“Hardly! It may have slipped your notice, _brother_ , but I’ve got better things to do than make like I work at the Pearl.”

“ _Better things to do_ , huh?” The grin came fast, a little wild. Aidan could think of a thousand and one insults—some of which he knew would find their mark; leave it to family to know how best to mortally wound—but this was just play-fighting. He settled for a simple, laughing, “You know, I think you _are_ jealous. What’s wrong, Carver? Can’t find anyone willing to kiss your ugly mug? Feeling _lonely_?”

Carver flinched at that—a very real flinch that immediately had Aidan straightening in concern. It seemed he’d found a sore spot entirely on accident. “Carver,” Aidan began.

“Leave off,” Carver said, and there was no mistaking the flush of his cheeks or the husky _pain_ in his surly voice. “Before I make you leave off.”

“All right, then!” Anders interrupted, snagging Carver’s arm and dragging him back a step, pivoting neatly from aggressor to peacemaker. “That’s probably enough for tonight.” 

Success, after a fashion. Fenris-and-Anders were separating, fight delayed for another day, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

_I’m sorry_ , Aidan tried to telegraph across the widening distance, watching as Carver allowed Anders to tug him away. Carver just shrugged a shoulder, trying to play it off—but Aidan knew his brother. He knew that look on his face. Those words had caught on some insecurity buried just under the surface, had sunk deep with wicked barbs, and there’d be no prying them free anytime soon. _Damn_ it.

_I’m sorry_ , he thought, shoulders slowly beginning to slump. Sometimes it seemed like no matter what he did, no matter what choice he made, no matter how hard he tried, someone got hurt.

Fenris’s fingertips oh-so lightly brushing the curve of his spine gave him some amount of comfort, and he sighed and turned toward his Voice with a sad little smile. _Well_ , Aidan thought. _At least bloodshed was averted for now. Small victories._ “We should probably head on too,” he said. “It’s late.”

“Yes,” Fenris said, studying his face. The visible concern there, the _warmth_ barely disguised by gruffness, made the tight fist in Aidan’s chest slowly begin to loosen. Carver knew he hadn’t meant anything by it—and with time, maybe he could even convince his prickly younger brother that it wasn’t even _true_. “We should go home.”

Home. As if they had one to go to together. _One step at a time, Hawke_ , Aidan told himself, nodding once and moving doggedly toward the street. Fenris fell into step next to him, and it didn’t escape Aidan’s notice that they both instinctively took the long way around, opposite from where Anders and Carver had disappeared into the maze of Lowtown.

He sighed, then glanced over when Fenris’s knuckles brushed his, their fingers tangling oh-so briefly together before the elf cleared his throat and lengthened his stride, breaking away. Aidan watched him slip down the cobbled streets, lagging back a few paces; slowly, the smile that touched his lips became more and more genuine.

_One step at a time._


	33. Carver

Carver had assumed that when he joined the Templars, he’d _stop_ following around in his brother’s shadow.

In retrospect, that was rather naïve of him.

“Are we done here?” he demanded, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. They’d been picking over the same span of Wounded Coast for what felt like hours now.

Aidan looked up from his careful study of a locked wooden crate, Varric crouched at his side. Fenris (of course) was several paces away, watching the horizon with a wary air. No doubt wrestling with a fierce desire to both protect and strangle his precious Voice.

Carver could _relate_.

“You didn’t have to come, Carver,” Aidan pointed out, a little more sharply than the last few times. That was good—it meant he was getting over his attack of conscience after that ridiculous fake-fight and Carver’s…really embarrassing overreaction. He’d been _hurt_ by the truth of the off-handed words. _Hurt!_ Like some swooning hero of a romantic melodrama.

Or not-so-romantic, as the case may be. _Lonely_. Bah. As if he had time to be lonely with all his charges at the Gallows to protect—with all his brother’s friends to while away the hours when he couldn’t face another Templar.

 _Yes_ , an insidious part of him whispered. _All of Aidan’s friends. Not yours. They’ll never be yours._

Maker.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, turning away. The crash of waves against the shore was unaccountably soothing, drawing him with its steady rhythm. “Just hurry up. Some of us have actual responsibilities.”

“Some of us are sour enough to spoil a perfectly good pie,” Varric muttered, using one of the strange Marcher sayings Mother used to fall back on whenever the most difficult of her children refused to smile just because he was told to. And why should he smile, when he was being dragged from yet another home, uprooted from yet another town, all because the three mages in his family always, always trumped whatever Carver needed to feel safe and sane and grounded? He understood when he got older, but back then, young and so _angry_ all the time? It was hard not to see it as yet more proof that he was the least important Hawke.

No wonder he never made any friends of his own—he’d never been given the chance to learn how. He wasn’t like Bethany or Aidan. People didn’t just _like_ him.

For good reason, he supposed.

“Oh sod off,” Carver muttered, hating the tell-tale thinness of his voice. It was infuriating, mortifying, how easy it was to trip through these old, dark tangle of emotions no matter how hard he struggled to keep them at bay. He’d been out of sorts for days, ever since that fake fight.

No. No, if he were being honest with himself, he’d been out of sorts ever since he’d walked Anders back to his clinic _after_ the fight, listening as the mage ranted on and on about bloody _Aidan_. Fenris doesn’t deserve him _this_ ; Aidan should be with someone who respects him _that_. It wasn’t until Carver had forced a change in topics, bringing up their Mage Underground that Anders had taken the hint.

Even so, days later, he was still feeling the sting of that particular rejection. The Other Hawke—wasn’t that what they called him? Even Anders admitted Carver was only second best…and as true as that was, he _wanted_ …something. Void. He didn’t even know.

“Hey,” Aidan said in that low, maddeningly kind voice, gently breaking into Carver’s rapidly spiraling thoughts. Then again, when Carver didn’t respond, “ _Hey_.” Even Fenris looked over at that, dark brows arched in question. “Carver, _stop_.”

“I’m not,” he began quickly, defensively, but the words were heavy on his own tongue. Yes. Yes, he was, and he didn’t want to be. Maker, he was so tired of being so bitter all the time. “All right,” Carver said instead, voice quiet.

Aidan stood, eyes locked with Carver’s as he moved toward him. _Open_ the way he always, always was. Maker, even as children, Aidan had been nothing but selflessly giving; and oh, how Carver had _hated_ it. _Aidan the perfect. Aidan the special. Aidan the martyr._

Somewhere along the way, Carver realized with slowly unspooling shock, he’d stopped thinking of Aidan like that. He’d grown up over the last years in Kirkwall—they both had. And now, meeting Aidan’s gaze, allowing himself to see past his own petty jealousies and recriminations, he saw _so much_ of himself reflected back in those grey eyes. Deep, years-old anguish. Fear. Shadows of everything they had lost.

Father. Leto. King Cailan. _Bethany_. Maker, would the absence of his twin ever feel like anything less than the loss of half his heart?

Aidan dropped a hand to Carver’s shoulder and gave a faint shake of his head. _No_ , his expression seemed to be saying. _No, it’s always going to be like this. We just have to learn to survive it somehow._

“Aidan,” Carver began, voice suspiciously rusty. They’d never grieved together, he realized. There hadn’t been time at first, desperately fleeing the fall of Lothering, and once they were aboard that ship—once they were in Kirkwall—Carver had withdrawn into himself and Aidan had found his replacement in Aveline.

 _That’s not fair_ , he told himself, even as he reached up to rest his hand over Aidan’s, just for a moment. _You know that’s not fair._

Carver had never given Aidan a chance. He’d always had his walls up, too afraid after the loss of Bethany to risk letting him in; what if he lost Aidan too? He might never recover from that.

It was high past time to let that lingering fear go. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel so hurt and angry anymore. Maybe… Maybe…

_Oh, sod it._

Carver forced himself to relax his guard and offer a faint, crooked smile. Aidan’s expression immediately opened wide, going soft, _warm_. Like he’d just been waiting for Carver to give that little bit for him to offer _everything_ in return. And wasn’t that just like it had always been between them? Wasn’t it just Aidan’s way to give and give and give until he risked scraping himself raw—and still give more? Sometimes he didn’t know whether he wanted to hug or shake his impossible brother.

Before he could do either, however—before they could make something of this rare moment of raw connection, of honesty, and build on it the relationship that had been stagnating for years thanks to his own petty bitterness—there was a sudden sickeningly familiar rush of air, followed by a hollow _thud_. Carver turned with a jerk, shield going up to defend Aidan against the second volley of arrows streaking down like black rain from above.

To defend Aidan…who was rushing _like a lackwit_ to Fenris’s side.

Because _of course he was_.

“Maker take you, you bloody idiot!” Carver snapped, but he was too busy blocking arrows to give chase. Fenris was growling, Varric was firing back, and he could just make out the soft hum of Aidan’s barrier springing to life. The air was black with fletchings; they thudded against his shield in a steady rat-a-tat, a few making it past to bounce harmlessly off his heavy plate. 

Carver shifted his weight, drawing his sword; just up the slope, coming from the left and the right (an ambush, cleverly planned; how had he missed the signs?) was the clatter of steel and guttural shouts in a language that was chillingly familiar-yet-not.

“ _No!_ ” Fenris howled, and flew forward like a shot, huge blade swinging. Aidan called out to him in Tevene, and just like that, the strange language crystalized in Carver’s mind.

 _Fuck_. Tevinter slave-hunters.

“Varric!” he called, but Varric was already moving behind him, using Carver as _his_ shield as he leaned around the massive metal wall he created to take shots at the archers between each volley.

“Yeah,” Varric said. “I know. _Shit_.”

The first wave of swordsmen were nearly on them; Fenris and Aidan were already deep in their midst, lightning forking, blood spraying, limbs—literal limbs, sliced clean off their bodies—flying. It was chaos, and Carver itched to throw himself into the melee with them.

But for the first time since coming to Kirkwall and taking leadership of their little band of misfits, Aidan wasn’t shouting orders and running the battlefield like a seasoned general. Aidan was lost in the moment, in the fear and fury that had Fenris howling like a wild dog, and it was up to Carver to make sure the most vulnerable members of their party remained whole.

So he dug his heels in and let Varric—armorless Varric—use him for shelter and _waited_ for the battle to come to him.

It crashed around him like a breaking wave, the way it always did. It drowned out the sound of his own racing heart and the cries of his friends; all he could hear was clanging metal as he lifted his sword to block a blow, then planted a heavily armored foot in the middle of the slaver’s stomach and _shoved_.

The man went toppling back, taking a few of his compatriots with him, and Carver flashed a crooked grin behind him.

Varric was too busy to notice; Carver liked to think Anders would have grinned back. But there was no time to wonder about that, or worry about Aidan’s barrier holding strong as he and Fenris literally sliced their way through the main horde. Instead, Carver swung his sword to begin the dance, cutting down anything in his path.

There was no marking time in a fight—there was just _before_ and _after_. Carver was aware of a storm raging nearby, a hurricane of terrifying force whipping through the crags and crevices of the coast, but he could barely spare a thought for this latest display of his brother’s incredible power. Aidan was keeping the wind contained and ripping away their enemies in droves—that was all that mattered.

At least, that was all that mattered until Carver pressed his boot against the belly of his remaining foe and tugged his blade free. Blood fountained up from the gaping wound, painting the sand in garish stripes of red. Carver grunted and stepped back before it could spatter his boots, glancing around for his next opponent.

The coastline was quiet; the dead lay tossed here and there like broken dolls, staring sightlessly up at the sky. Arrows bristled from the sand, and the only sound was their harsh breathing and the rhythmic lull of the sea.

…until one of the men gasped a breath and reached out as if to drag himself away. He was trembling, legs shattered by the force of Aidan’s tempest, pale as a ghost and looking suddenly, sickeningly _young_. Maker, what kind of men had Fenris’s old master sent after them?

Carver looked over to meet Aidan’s gaze, but Aidan only had eyes for Fenris. Fenris threw down his sword, markings flickering in warning, and strode to the broken boy. He dropped down hard, knee slamming into the small of his back, gauntleted fingers gripping his hair and yanking his head back. Carver flinched as the boy _howled._

“Where is he?” Fenris snarled.

The boy moaned. “Please, don’t kill me!”

Fenris’s muscles coiled, tensing before he yanked the boy’s head back, then _smashed_ it down hard against a jutting rock. Blood spattered the ground; Carver took a halting step forward.

Aidan held out his hand in a staying gesture, not looking back. He stood just a few paces away from his Voice, still as a statue. _Watching_ and doing nothing to intervene.

“ _Tell me!_ ” Maker, Fenris barely sounded human.

The boy sobbed in gurgling breaths, straining beneath Fenris’s grip. He tried to look over his shoulder, face masked in blood, eyes so huge they were nearly all whites. “I don’t know,” he gasped, trembling. Almost _sobbing_ , bloody void. “I don’t know, I swear. Hadriana brought us. She’s at the holding caves north of the city.” Then, in a desperate whisper, “I could show you the way.”

Fenris dropped his head; his markings strobed so brightly it hurt to look at him. “No need,” he murmured. “I know which ones you speak of.”

 _Aidan_ , Carver thought in warning, taking another step. _Do something._

The boy _was_ sobbing now—snuffling, pitiful noises muffled by his broken noise. He kept twisting this way and that, looking over his shoulder at Fenris. _Pleading_. “Then let me go,” he said. “I beg you. I swear, I—”

But Fenris would not listen. “You chose the wrong Master,” he said grimly. He grabbed the boy by the ears, grip rough, and Carver barely had time to suck in a breath before Fenris wrenched his head to the side. The loud _snap_ was so deafening, so final, that the whole world went silent in response.

The boy collapsed, dead. Fenris slowly rose. And Aidan just _stood there_ and let it all happen, one hand still outstretched to keep Carver and Varric safely away. Carver couldn’t even say that he blamed him, or that he thought Aidan had done the wrong thing. It was just so shocking to witness his bleeding heart brother watch as a man—barely a man—begged for his life…and did nothing to save him.

Aidan saved everyone; _Carver_ was the ruthless pragmatist. What did it say about the two of them that right now, Carver was the one wishing he could have done something to stop it?

Fenris was pacing, clearly agitated to the point of madness. When Aidan finally spoke, his voice was low and even and _soothing_ , as if he were facing down a wild animal. Maker, perhaps they were; Carver had seen Fenris furious before, but he’d never seen him like this, markings flashing in rapid pulses, blood dripping from his gauntlets as he paced and snarled and cursed.

“Fenris,” Aidan said. “What can I do to help?”

Fenris’s head jerked up at that, green eyes black, pupils blown wide. “Hadriana,” he growled, baring his teeth. “I was a fool to think I was free. They will never let me be!”

He whirled and slammed his fist against a rocky outcropping; Aidan took a quick step forward, hand outstretched. But even he didn’t dare go too near Fenris when he was like this. “They need to be stopped before this goes any farther,” Aidan said quietly. “ _She_ needs to be stopped. I will help you. We all will.”

That seemed to calm Fenris, at least a little. He turned back, dragging one hand over his face. He was trembling hard, but he was no longer snarling when he said, “The holding caves held slaves in the old times, but apparently they are no longer abandoned. We must go quickly, before Hadriana has a chance to prepare…or flee.”

“We will go now,” Aidan said. He took another step forward, then another, approaching Fenris by slow degrees until he could reach up to cup his jaw. The touch was so tender, so _loving_ it was almost painful to see; Carver looked away, stomach twisting uncomfortably. A few paces away, Varric was busy gathering his spent bolts. Giving them their privacy. “Before she realizes her attack failed.”

“And when we find her?” Fenris murmured.

The quiet certainty in Aidan’s voice made the hairs on Carver’s arms raise. “We kill her,” Aidan said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

As it turned out, it was.

The battle had been brutal, bloody, but in the end, the woman in Tevinter robes was sprawled across the stone floor, staff just out of reach. Her breaths came in wheezing gasps and she looked shaken down to her bones even as she eyed her weapon. Several paces away, quietly checking the dead to make sure none of them would be in any state to rise, Carver watched her dart a glance between Fenris and her staff, Fenris and her staff, as if weighing out her options.

She reached for the staff; Fenris immediately hefted his sword, bringing it down in a bloody arc.

“Stop!” she cried before its steel could kiss her bare throat. She collapsed back, staff out of reach. Aidan moved to snag it, his own short staff pointed unerringly toward her heart. He moved back a step, then another, before shifting his grip and bringing her staff across his knee. Its loud _snap_ made her flinch, but she didn’t look away from Fenris—didn’t try to tip away from the blade resting perilously close to her throat. “You do not want me dead.”

Fenris barked a guttural laugh; it hurt to hear. “There is only one person I want dead more.”

Carver shivered, standing. He would take that voice, those words, with him to the Fade tonight; there was no way the raw hate in them wouldn’t haunt his dreams.

She just sucked in a breath and barreled on. “I have information, elf, and I will trade it in return for my life.”

“Ha! The location of Danarius? What good would that do me? I would rather he lose his pet pupil.” A red necklace was forming around her throat, dripping jewels toward the high collar of her robes.

Hadriana bit her lip. “You have a sister,” she said quickly. “She is alive. You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go and I will tell you where she is.”

The holding cave went utterly silent.

Fenris slowly lowered his blade. “I already know about Varania,” he said.

Hadriana obviously hadn’t been expecting _that_. Her eyes flared wide, darting between Fenris and Aidan, then toward Carver and Varric as if she could somehow divine the truth from their faces. “But, I… _how_?” she demanded. “How could you possibly know?”

Aidan stepped closer, lightly gripping Fenris’s elbow. “She may know where to _find_ her,” he murmured.

Hadriana sucked in a breath. “ _You_ ,” she spat, expression incredulous. She pushed herself up from her supplicant’s recline, blue eyes snapping fire. “Of _course_. You practically stink of each other; of _course_ little Leto has himself a Voice.”

The blade was at her throat again, and she went perfectly still.

“Tell us where she is,” Aidan said, voice completely flat, “and we may let you live.”

“Ha!” she spat, eyeing him as if he were filth. Carver felt himself responding, temper flaring in response to that contemptuous look. “You think I’m a fool?”

Just behind him, Varric snorted. “You picked a fight with an elf who can rip the heart right out of your chest, lady. If the boot fits…”

“Tell us,” Aidan said again. “All you have to lose is your life.”

She looked between Fenris and Aidan again, expression settling into something sour and scared. Then she gave a faint nod. “I will tell you if you give me your word you will free me. The woman is in the Imperium. I would not stay captive the entire time it would take for you to find her. You want to know who you were, Fenris? Then let me go.”

Aidan looked at Fenris. His voice dropped low, gentle. “This is your call,” he murmured.

Fenris gave a jerky nod, eyes never leaving Hadriana. He sheathed his sword, and she let out a shaken breath. Carver watched the tense line of Fenris’s body as he stalked toward her, not trusting this sudden quiescence. 

“So I have your word?” Hadriana demanded. She was a fool if she couldn’t see death bearing down on her. “I tell you and you let me go?”

Fenris moved very close, until his face was only a foot or two from Hadriana’s. Carver tensed, hand on the hilt of his blade. Varric hefted Bianca. Aidan? Stood perfectly still. “Yes,” Fenris murmured, voice a broken rasp. “You have my word.”

The fool mage let out a relieved breath. “Her name is Varania, as you know. She is in Qarinus serving a magister by the name of Ahriman.”

“A servant, not a slave.” There was no question in Fenris’s voice.

“She’s not a slave.”

“I believe you,” Fenris said, markings beginning to flicker. Hadriana barely had time to gasp in a shocked breath before he was lashing out, quick as a striking snake—fist slamming through her chest. She jerked, entire frame going _tight_ as if she’d been stretched on a rack. Then she collapsed, Fenris’s fist closed deep in her chest; her eyes stayed wide open, staring, glassy blue. Her mouth was twisted into a scream caught forever in her throat.

Fenris straightened, letting her drop at his feet. “We are done here,” he said, turning and stalking away. He pushed past Aidan without a second glance.

Aidan caught his arm, brows knit together. “Fenris,” he said, voice laced with worry. “Are you—”

Fenris whirled on him, lyrium flaring bright. _Threatening_. Carver had his blade out in an instant, but Aidan jerked out his hand again, warning him away.

 _Let me handle this_ , the gesture seemed to say. Carver hissed out a frustrated breath and stayed where he was…but he did not sheath his sword. He was pleased to see that just a few paces away, Varric had Bianca resting against his shoulder, ready.

Just in case.

Maker, what did it say that Aidan had to face his lover with two armed men at his back _just in case_? Maybe Anders had been right.

Fenris barely paid them any mind, eyes locked on Aidan’s, teeth flashing in a snarl. If Hadriana’s death was supposed to bring him peace, clearly it had failed. “What?” Fenris demanded. “Am I _what_?” There was a dangerous fury in those words.

Aidan barely blinked in the face of such focused rage. “Are you all right?” he asked gently.

“Bah!” Fenris jerked back, running his fingers through his hair. “All that matters is I got to crush this bitch’s heart. May she rot, and all the other _mages_ with her.”

Carver sucked in a furious breath, but Aidan just subtly rolled his shoulders as if letting the barely veiled attack glance off him. If Anders were here, Carver found himself thinking, he would be at Fenris’s throat in an instant. _Maker_ , he wished Anders were here. He took a threatening step forward, ignoring the quick, hard look Aidan cast him over his shoulder.

_Stay out of this._

_No_ , Carver wanted to shout. _Not when he’s hurting you._

Aidan cleared his throat. “We should go, Fenris,” he said. The words were steady as before, but Carver knew his brother—he knew that low quaver in his voice, pain threading through the words like a red string.

But Fenris was too far gone into his own impossible anguish to heed the damage he was heaping onto his Voice. “Go where?” he demanded, pacing erratically. “Back to Kirkwall? Don’t make me laugh. You saw what was done here. There is always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” Carver spat, moving forward, but Fenris wasn’t _done_ ripping Aidan open from heart to groin, as vicious as a wounded animal, all sharp claws and blind rage.

“Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her,” Fenris said, getting up into Aidan’s face—snarling the words at him as if _Aidan_ were responsible. As if Aidan had ever done anything but love him. Then, with so much raw contempt it was like a physical blow: “What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?”

Silence.

Utter silence.

Carver froze at Aidan’s side, shocked into stillness by those words, by the way they had been spat at his brother in what could only be seen as a pointed, personal attack. The venom in them was paralyzing and terrible.

Aidan had gone just as still, gray eyes burning bright in a pale, pale face. His lips were parted, but he said nothing.

He did nothing.

It seemed, Carver thought, reaching up slowly to rest his hand between Aidan’s shoulder blades, that his stupidly generous, too-kind brother would never fucking learn to defend himself against the monster he claimed to love.

Fenris sucked in a breath…and dropped his eyes. “I…need to go,” he said, voice rough. And then he turned on his heel and fled, leaving Carver—as always—to pick up the pieces.

 _I hate him_ , Carver almost said. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed the impulse back, knowing even now Aidan would defend Fenris to the death. “Come on,” Carver said instead, keeping his hand where it was. He could feel the way Aidan trembled against him, fighting tears; it made his stomach clench with unbridled rage. “Let’s go home.”

_And maybe, if we’re lucky, Fenris will be halfway to Tevinter by the time we get there._


	34. Leandra

“Bodahn,” Leandra called as she made her way down the steps. “Have you seen my shawl?”

Nothing. Not a peep from the man’s quarters, from the library, from down in the kitchen where he liked to keep Orana company. She frowned—it was unlike him to leave without saying anything—and fussed with her hair as her footsteps filled the quiet hall. Goodness, not even Trouble was stirring.

Of course, the reason for _that_ became clear enough when she reached full view of the fire and saw the man crouched before it.

“Oh!” Leandra cried, startled. She froze, one hand at her throat—seeing at first glance only that huge _sword_ strapped to his back, reflecting firelight at her in wicked flashes.

Then Leto… _Fenris_ …turned his head, silver sweep of his hair doing little to disguise his uneasy expression, and she dropped her hands with a warm smile. “Fenris,” Leandra said, putting every bit of wholehearted welcome she could into her words. “It’s so good to see you.”

He straightened from his crouch, Trouble wriggling around shamelessly at his feet, belly bared. She cast the huge mabari an amused look as she crossed the floor to the two of them. _No wonder I didn’t hear him bark,_ she mused. Nothing had the warhound panting and happy like a belly rub. “Leandra,” Fenris began slowly, voice rough. He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I…apologize for barging in without invitation.”

“Oh Fenris dear, you’re family,” Leandra assured him. “You don’t need an invitation.”

For some reason, that one word— _family_ —made him flinch and turn away. He paced to the fire to rest one still-gauntleted hand on the sill, eyes locked on the dancing flames; the line of his body was stiff, muscles drawn tight.

 _Oh dear_ , she thought, torn between reaching out to comfort him and keeping a careful distance. Her instincts were to bundle him up in a warm blanket and force tea on him, but that’s what she would have done for Aidan, Carver, Anders, Merrill. She wasn’t quite sure even now how to deal with her most prickly and alien of children.

“Is something the matter, Fenris?” she finally asked, voice low. She kept several paces away, deciding to give him his space. Wasn’t Aidan always saying that Fenris needed to be given the freedom to _choose_ when and how to take affection? It wasn’t in her nature to hold back, but for Fenris, she would bite her tongue and try for patience. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“No.” The word was sharply spoken, harsh, but he turned back from the fire a moment later with apology in his eyes. “That is to say, no thank you. There is nothing you can do.”

So there _was_ something wrong. Something bigger than the usual demons that nipped at his heels if the restless, almost frightened way he shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet was any indication.  
“If you’re certain,” she murmured, moving closer under the pretense of warming her hands by the fire. Fenris stiffened, but he didn’t pull away; she was willing to take that as a victory. Leandra tipped her chin to look up at him, smiling. “Did you come looking for Aidan? I’m afraid he’s been gone since before dawn, and he didn’t leave me with any idea when he’d return.”

Not that Aidan was ever in the habit of keeping her advised about his goings-on.

Fenris shifted restlessly. “No,” he said. “That is…yes, but I did not expect him back. I… I would wait, if I may.”

The impulse to comfort him was just too great. Leandra reached out—mindful enough to go slow—and touched his arm gently. She could feel him tensing, going iron-hard beneath her fingers, but after a moment, he relaxed again. He even offered her a little smile, lips quirking at the corners. Leandra was willing to take that as a victory, even if it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of _course_ you may, Fenris,” she said. “You are welcome here any time. I wish you would consider this your home.”

“I…thank you,” Fenris said, a little awkwardly.

She squeezed his bicep, then gave his shoulder a brisk pat. “Now! I was on my way to see the Viscount on a matter of some small urgency, but I could use a fortifying cup of tea to keep me warm before I go. Especially since _someone_ —” she shot Trouble a stern glance; he whined and covered his eyes with a paw “—appears to have absconded with my shawl.”

“I will not keep you.”

Leandra just laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of Fenris’s arm. He stiffened again at the touch, but just like before, he relaxed after a moment. He even reached up to lightly place the fingers of his other hand over hers, posture going straight, head tipped in the way an Orlesian lord might envy. 

_Such_ good manners, when he chose to bother. She toyed with the idea of asking him to take Carver in hand…but then, she thought with a little smile, there had always been something charming about her youngest son’s insistence on clinging to honest Ferelden frankness.

“Well,” she said at Fenris’s raised brow. “But what if I insist on keeping _you_? At least until I’m warm enough to leave you to wait on Aidan.”

Those green eyes flickered down, then back to her face. The wariness was all but gone from them, and he seemed more relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time. The melancholy was there, the worry—as if he were braced for the moment Aidan returned—but the anger and fear had all but bled away.

 _Ah, dear_ , she thought, squeezing his arm. _Whatever you’re worried about, whatever you think you may have done that is so very unforgivable, I promise you: you’re already forgiven_. “Come, keep an old woman company while she warms her bones,” she said, leading the way toward the kitchen. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age. You should come around the house more often—perhaps to dinner?”

“Yes,” Fenris said, then chuffed a soft laugh as he let her lead him away. “You are right. I should. I will.”

“ _Good_ ,” Leandra said, letting the pure satisfaction sing through her voice. Whatever had been troubling him was clearly still there—not even warm tea and motherly concern could fix that—but it was tucked away for a time. He looked to be at peace. “Family should stick together.”

Fenris shot her another look at that word, but he didn’t turn away. If anything, his smile grew a little stronger, warmer, if still cautious. “Yes,” he said, simply. Gruffly. “They should.”


	35. Aidan

In the end, he’d resisted Carver’s attempts to take him straight home.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to lock himself up in his room and have a proper brood over everything. His chest ached as if Fenris had punched his fist through to wrench out his heart, and his head was so full of racing thoughts that it pounded in time with the crashing waves.

He was hurt, he was sore, he was nearly breathless with a powerful mix of worry and anger and fear and pain.

And yet…he couldn’t leave. Not until they were certain they’d killed _all_ of Hadriana’s men. Until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that every one of them had been tracked down and _set on bloody fire._

“You think you’re taking this a little far, Hawke?” Varric asked as they pushed through the underbrush cloaking a path he remembered from the last time they’d gone poking along the coast. “Now I’ll admit, one suspicious pile of rocks pretty much looks like any other to me, but I’m pretty sure we’ve already covered this strip. Extensively. Thoroughly. One might even say _exhaustively_.”

Aidan ignored him, setting his jaw against the disapproval radiating from his companions. They’d stumbled across Anders gathering elfroot along the cove, and Aidan hadn’t wasted time before recruiting him to join their search party despite the other mage’s weak protests.

The more eyes they had, the more certain he could be that they hadn’t missed anything that could prove a threat to Fenris later.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Varric added after a few expectant minutes of silence. “Just…wondering out loud here.”

“Well _I’m_ complaining,” Carver muttered. He whacked at a bit a driftwood that had the audacity to be in his way. It clattered noisily down the path, breaking up into splinters as it landed on the rocks far below.

Anders laughed. “Yes, but that’s not exactly _new_. Hey!” he added, dancing away from Carver’s mostly-playful swipe. “What happened to your vow to protect all mages? I don’t feel very protected right now.”

“Changed my mind,” Carver said, voice already lightening, going teasing. It was still a little strange to witness how much happier Carver was when he had an excuse to be around their sister’s Voice. “Ran into an irritating ponce of an apostate, you see, and gave into the impulse to drown him; couldn’t be helped.”

“This irritating ponce is going to remember you said that next time your armor chafes and you come begging him for a rub-down.”

“That was _once_ —”

Varric hurried to catch up with Aidan, leaving Carver and Anders behind them to pull each other’s’ metaphorical pigtails. Aidan didn’t look down when Varric brushed up against his side, already knowing what he’d see on his friend’s face: that endless patience, that _empathy_ that would inevitably force him to lower his guard and rethink his mad plan to scour every inch of the coast over and over—every hidden bend, every spider-infested cave, every secret place a man could hide.

If Varric really wanted to leave, he could. If Carver and Anders wanted to break away to do…whatever it was they got up to behind everyone’s backs…he wouldn’t complain. Aidan wasn’t keeping them here.

He just couldn’t stop. Not until he was certain. Not until…

Not until he knew down to his bones that Fenris was safe.

 _Maker_ , his stomach was cramping with the bitter tang of fury. Seeing those slavers and knowing they had been sent after Fenris had shaken him to his core, and finally coming face-to-face with Hadriana was… He had no words for what that was. He had no context for this specific brand of virulent hatred. 

The strangest thing was, he wasn’t entirely sure it was his own anger his was feeling. Back there, in the cavern, he’d sworn he could almost feel Fenris’s emotions as if they were his own. His body had flared bright with the charge of lyrium, and he’d wanted to rip _that woman’s_ head off with his bare hands. He would have torn her apart limb from limb and been _glad_.

He _was_ glad. Glad she was dead. Glad he got to witness it. Glad her body would be eaten by spiders and deepstalkers bit by bit by bit until there was nothing left of her but bleached bone and a staring, screaming skull.

It wasn’t like him to feel this way. Aidan shook his head against the stir of alien emotions and tried to refocus, but his own skull was ringing in time with the swell and sway of the sea. His chest ached from the power of his fear and rage and, and _hurt_. Maker, how it hurt.

 _What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?_ Did Fenris really still feel that way? Did he feel that way about _Aidan?_ Was there truly no hope for a happy ending to their story?

Aidan stilled when Varric’s hand settled gently on his arm. “Hawke,” Varric said, voice pitched low. He hesitated, then added: “Shit. _Aidan_. We get it; believe me, we don’t want anything to happen to Broody either. What you’re trying to do is noble, but…”

Aidan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. A part of him wanted to shake Varric off with a snarl, but the rest was reasonable enough— _himself_ enough—to recognize the truth. They’d been back and forth over the same stretch of coast for hours now. The sun had long since dipped toward the horizon, and it would already be well into night by the time they returned to Kirkwall if they left now. Staying did nothing but delay the inevitable.

There was nothing here. Fenris was safe. And he couldn’t use this fruitless quest as an excuse to avoid the man who had hurt him so deeply forever.

“All right?” Varric said, hand still warm and solid on his arm. He understood the complicated web of Aidan’s motivations maybe better than Aidan himself did. He could see it in Varric’s eyes, in the crooked twist of his mouth. Trust his personal biographer to be able to peek into his head and untangle the snarled jumble of emotion there.

Aidan nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. Then, straightening, he offered the closest he could manage to a smile. “Okay, right. You’re right. Let’s head back to the city.”

“I’ve got men on retainer,” Varric assured him. “They’ll keep an eye on Fenris to make sure this doesn’t happen again. A distant eye,” he added when Aidan opened his mouth to protest. “Far enough that he won’t feel crowded. And only if he agrees.”

“He won’t,” Aidan pointed out, but he appreciated the thought anyway. It meant a lot that the man who had become one of his closest friends went so far out of his way to protect Fenris. It made him feel like if anything were to ever happen to him, the people he loved—his _family_ , whether of blood or circumstance—would be in good hands.

Varric shrugged. “Then I’ll have them keep their eyes peeled for other weird shit. I figure a guy like Denarius won’t be able to just sneak into Kirkwall without anyone noticing. Evil’s got to have a stench, right? Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Bickerson,” he called out to Carver and Anders. They both looked up at that, which was nearly enough to make Aidan relax into a smile. “We’re packing up and heading back to the city. Feel free to join us if you’re done with…whatever this whole thing you’ve got going on is.”

Anders snorted. Carver just crossed his arms and glowered.

Varric shouldered Bianca. “Or don’t,” he said easily. “Whatever works for you.”

“Thank you for helping me search,” Aidan added, because it had to be said. “It means a great deal to me.”

“It had better,” Carver muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Anders elbowed him lightly. “What he meant to say was of _course_ ,” he said. “Anything you need.”

Carver cocked a challenging brow. “Even if it’s for Fenris?”

“…anything you need within reason.”

 _That_ was enough to make Aidan laugh. He could feel the hard knot of anger and fear beginning to unwind, unravel, drift away on the light ocean breeze as he looked around at his friends—at some of the people he loved most in the world. However dark the path to Kirkwall had been, he couldn’t regret the incredible changes it had brought to his life.

He couldn’t regret _this_.

“Come on, then,” he said with a crooked smile. “We’ll stop in at the Hanged Man on our way into town; I’m buying.” It would be good to have something to take his mind off everything that had happened.

“Well,” Varric said, one corner of his mouth tucked up into a grin. “I do believe you’ve just said the magic words.”

It was late by the time Aidan left the Hanged Man.

All three had come along, of course, settling into the familiar warmth of their usual table. Carver’d only put up with a round or two before making his excuses, however. Anders lasted just one more round after that. But by then, Isabela had come sailing into the place with a giggling Merrill on her arm, and the night had unfolded into a friendly sort of raucous cheer—wild enough that, for a couple of hours at least, Aidan was almost able to ignore the tavern door every time it opened. He was almost able to pretend he wasn’t watching for Fenris.

He’d sent out runners the moment he’d reached the city limits, giving each a few coins to check Fenris’s favorite haunts. He just needed the confirmation that he’d made it back to the city in one piece—that he hadn’t fled for Par Vollen or Rivain or any dark corner of the world where Aidan would be honor-bound not to follow. He would not force this on Fenris; he could only live in hope.

One by one, the runners returned. One by one, they reported the same message: Fenris was nowhere to be found. One by one, Aidan’s heart broke just a little more.

“Shit,” Aidan breathed, focusing hard on the battered table to keep from shoving his way out the raucous tavern in search of his Voice. He wanted nothing more than to go beating down his door or…or sliding deep into dreams and chasing him through the Fade, trying desperately to reach him, to reassure him, to coax him back where Aidan could keep him _safe_. Out alone in the world, there would be no one to watch Fenris’s back. Even if Fenris hated him for the magic that flowed through his veins, at least here in Kirkwall he had friends to watch over him. He had safety in numbers.

But Aidan forced himself to stay where he was, glaring daggers into the scarred tabletop as the roar of voices blended into a wordless ululation. His head was swimming and his heart was aching and he could. Not. Force. Fenris to stay. He could not chase him down and try to convince him, because with as much as he loved his Voice, he would never try to steal self-determination from him. Not the way Denarius had. Never, ever again.

So he sat. And he stayed. And he waited as the hours ticked by.  
By the time Isabela was coaxing everyone into a game of strip Wicked Grace, however, he could no longer ignore the nervous energy creeping like mist beneath his skin. He had to get out of here; maybe curl around Trouble in his big, lonely bed and try not to let fear swallow him whole.

“I’m out,” Aidan said, ignoring his friend’s passionate groan. He tipped back the last of his ale before pushing back from the table—warm from more than the roaring fire.

“You are _no fun_ ,” the pirate protested, but she waggled her brows when he met her eyes, gold labret catching the light.

He tried to laugh. “No,” Aidan agreed. “Not for a long time now.” He met Varric’s gaze and gave a tip of his head; Varric jerked his chin in response, already idly shuffling the cards. He, of course, understood. “Are you staying, Merrill?”

She looked up, eyes already glassy, cheeks flushed. It took so little to send her spiraling off into a giggly, drunken haze. “Oh! Oh well. Should I? I should.” She turned to look at Isabela and Varric. “Should I go? I can’t seem to decide—or feel my nose.” She swayed in her seat. “But I’m certain you’d tell me if it wasn’t there—wouldn’t you?”

“I would tell you the _moment_ your nose fell off, Kitten,” Isabela assured her. “And then I’d find a bit of clay and mock you up a new one—maybe using Anders as a model.”

Merrill snickered, pitching against her. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t— I wouldn’t have enough face if I had his nose! Sebastian has a lovely nose. Maybe I will ask him if I could have his.”

Varric leaned forward, catching Aidan’s eye. “I’ll make sure she gets back safely,” he said. Then, both of them watching as Merrill crawled up onto the table, he added, “…or she can stay here. That might be better.”

“Probably, yes.” Aidan shook his head, watching over his friends for another long minute. The tavern was aglow with laughter; refugees he’d met just off the docks all those years ago sat alongside the poor of Kirkwall, blended together so well it was no longer possible to pick one out from the other. A lot had changed since the Blight, and this was just another example of that. Even with tensions rising over the Qunari, it was good to see that. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Varric.”

“Hawke,” Varric said, turning back to the party—and, smiling to himself a little more naturally now, Aidan slipped away.

The night was cool, silver-blue in sharp contrast to the golden warmth of the Hanged Man. Aidan paused just outside its door, still able to hear the merry laughter even as he tipped his chin up to watch the stars. They winked overhead, vast and bright; distant in a way that had always managed to feel comforting.

Like somehow, someway, in his throne of stars, the Maker was watching over them all.

He let out a soft huff of breath and turned down the alley that would lead him through Lowtown. For a moment, he felt the strangest urge to turn right toward Gamlen’s house—the house where they had stayed during those first years as penniless refugees—but Aidan resisted the glimmer of nostalgia. That had, ironically, been a simpler time, but he didn’t want to go _back_. He didn’t want to trade everything…every _one_ …he had in his life for the simple pleasure of…

What? Lack of responsibility? Or simply the comfort of anonymity?

 _Kirkwall has its eyes on you, brother_ , Carver had said once, words twisted up with bitterness. It had been thrown at him like an accusation in the heat of an old argument, as if Aidan had ever _wanted_ to be the center of attention. As if he’d ever wanted anything more than a little farm on the edge of some gentle town, his family around him, his friends nearby, his Voice healed from the deep scars a life of slavery had inflicted on him.

Aidan would trade anything to be able to retire from the world and just _live_. And yet sometimes it seemed like no matter what he did, the world shaped itself around him in such a way that others couldn’t help but notice the place he took in it. With the Kirkwall Circle growing more and more unstable every day, and the people growing restless against the Arishok’s presence, and Chantry sisters rattling the cages, it seemed like it was only a matter of time before the city was wreathed in flames. What would he be willing to do to save it? What new weird turn would his life take? 

_Kirkwall has its eyes on you, brother._

Hightown. The streets were silent, save for the occasional scuff of a footpad—too clever to try attacking him, even alone. The houses were tall and grand and packed so tightly together he _still_ felt claustrophobic, even after all this time. The grand, empty windows staring down at him felt like watchful eyes. He wondered if he would ever feel completely comfortable in the grand Amell estate, or if he’d spend his entire life feeling like a fraud. A farmboy, climbing above his station, forcing his grandparents to turn over in their graves as he invited elves and apostates to live in the home they had built brick by brick for generations of _noble_ children. He wondered what they would think of that. He wondered what they would think of _him_.

Heavy thoughts for another night, perhaps.

Aidan pushed open the mansion door with a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He shouldered inside, already kicking off his shoes even before he’d nudged the door shut, glancing up toward the pleasantly roaring fire…and froze when he realized he was not alone.

 _Fenris_ looked up from his study of the vestibule tile. He was sitting on one of the long benches that spanned the room, sword propped in the corner and hands dangling between his knees. He stood, eyes on Aidan—wary and hopeful and so hesitant it made Aidan’s heart freeze in his chest. 

_He’s here_. The words tripped over themselves in his mind, caught in a breathless loop as he watched Fenris take a shuffling step closer. _He’s here. He’s here. He hasn’t left me._

Fenris cleared his throat, ducking his head almost bashfully. “I…your mother said you would not mind if I waited,” he murmured. His voice sounded beautifully rough. _Tentative_ , as if he were doubting his welcome.

That was enough to force Aidan into motion. He stepped forward, letting the heavy door close and latch behind him. His fingers itched to reach out and cup the line of Fenris’s jaw, but he knew better than to touch the other man without invitation. “No,” he said, coiling his hands into loose fists behind his back instead. His voice sounded rusty as well. “No, of course not. You’re welcome here any time. You could have waited by the fire, though,” he added, taking a hesitant step forward.

Fenris simply inclined his head.

“Do you—” The words felt thick on his tongue, and he stumbled to a stop, trying to collect himself. It felt strange, seeing Fenris now, after so many hours of trying to swallow back fear. The memory of what he’d said—the way he’d left—was so strong it was buzzing between them like a… Well, like a spell, ironically enough. Aidan dropped his gaze. “Would you like some tea?”

“No,” Fenris said. Then: “Your mother wished you to know she will be home late.”

Aidan nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Um. Thanks.” He took another step, then faltered to a stop again. The way Fenris was watching him made the hairs along his arms stand up. “Are you… _sure_ you don’t want any tea?”

Fenris let out a sharp breath. “ _No_. I do not—” He closed his eyes a moment, as if centering himself. When he opened them again, they were so full of conflicted emotion it was all Aidan could do not to reach for him then and there, invitation be damned. “I’ve been thinking about what happened with Hadriana. I…took out my anger on you—undeservedly so. I was…not myself.”

Fenris hesitated again, eyes dropping to the tiles that separated them. There was a faint hint of color on his cheeks, the tips of his ears. He wet his lips. “I am sorry,” Fenris added, very quiet.

“You must know,” Aidan murmured, “that I’ve already forgiven you.”

Fenris looked up through his lashes, meeting his eyes again. His shoulders were hunched forward, chin down—a shamed subservience to his posture that Aidan instinctively _hated_. “You should not,” he said. “At least, not so easily. What I said was…unkind of me. You are no Denarius.”

Aidan had to close his eyes at that, so _grateful_ he trembled with it. No, no he was _not_ Denarius, but after the abuses Fenris had suffered, he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Fenris really did see all mages as cruel copies crafted from the same broken mold. It wouldn’t have been fair, and it wouldn’t have been right, but it would have been so very, very easy to understand. And it most certainly would have meant there was no future for the two of them, because even if Fenris had eventually agreed to a bond, Aidan could never have let it happen.

He did not want an unum vinctum; he wanted his _Voice_.

“Thank you,” Aidan said. It was a struggle to find words at all. He looked up again, meeting Fenris’s eyes; he swore he could read the same impossible surge of emotion he was feeling in that green gaze. He almost swore he could feel lyrium charging beneath the scars wending their way across his own skin. He wet his lips and added, “I am…glad you’re here. I sent runners, but they could not find you. I had no idea where you went. I was concerned.”

Fenris was the first to break their gaze. He turned, pacing into the great hall—Aidan trailed behind him like a lovesick satellite. A moon to his sun? Whatever overblown analogy he found would do; all he knew was that he needed to stay close.

The fire cast a welcome warmth, shadows playing across Fenris’s face as he stared down into the flames. “I needed to be alone,” he admitted. “When…”

He hesitated, then swallowed and turned to look at Aidan again, jaw set. “When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep. Because of her status, I was powerless to respond.”

Fenris made a guttural noise at whatever empathy he read in Aidan’s eyes, turning away with clenched fists. “And she _knew it_. The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now… I couldn’t let her go. I wanted to,” he added, almost as if it baffled him to admit it, “but I couldn’t.”

 _I love you,_ Aidan thought, watching Fenris with a helpless ache. He wished he could find a way to kill Hadriana again and again. Or…or take the desire to grind her into dust from both of them. Whatever it was that would bring Fenris peace. “I’m sorry,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t near enough.

Fenris made a noise that was almost a laugh, caught in his throat. Jagged, like everything inside him was ripping apart at the freshly stirred memories. “This…hate,” he murmured. “I thought I’d gotten away from it, but it dogs me no matter where I go. To feel it again, to know it was they who planted it inside me…it was too much to bear. And that I should in turn use it as a weapon against you—hurt _you_ —” 

He stopped abruptly, chin tipped down so the sweep of his hair hid his eyes. Everything about the way he stood screamed rage and pain and fear and _regret_. He was walled off behind it; lost within it. If Aidan let him go now, those words would fester between them for Maker knew how long.

“Fenris,” Aidan said, reaching out but not daring to touch. 

Fenris just curled his lip. “Bah,” he spat, sidestepping Aidan’s outstretched hand and moving past him, toward the door. He was retreating, taking that hurt and swallowing it deep. “But I didn’t come here to burden you further.”

“You don’t need to leave, Fenris,” Aidan said—and in a moment of either madness or foresight, he ignored all the wordless warnings sparking off Fenris’s closed-off body and reached out to grasp his arm. 

Bare fingers closed around bare flesh. A spark flared between them, the scent of ozone sharp. Fenris lit up in an instant, lyrium blue-white and _beautiful_ as he turned with a snarl and grabbed Aidan’s wrist _hard_ , jerking his hand away. He drove forward, pinning Aidan’s arm between them, slamming him back against the cold marble wall with an audible _thud_.

Aidan’s head hit the column; his eyes went wide. Fenris was so close their chest brushed with each labored breath, and their dilated eyes were locked together. _Heat_ boiled in the pit of his stomach, spiking high when Fenris tipped his head forward, eyes dropping down to Aidan’s parted lips.

He drew in a hissing breath; Fenris let out his own shakily. The light began to fade.

“Aidan,” Fenris said. He began to pull back. “I am…sorry.”

But Aidan twisted his hand to catch the front of Fenris’s breastplate, keeping him close. He didn’t kiss Fenris—he’d sworn he’d never force anything on him that Fenris didn’t want—but he telegraphed his own desire in the way he tipped back his chin, in the way he melted bonelessly against the column. He was submitting in every way possible, showing his willingness to take whatever Fenris chose to give, baring his throat the way wolves telegraphed their surrender.

The growl Fenris gave in return coiled hot and tight in Aidan’s stomach. He was turned on, he realized; _hard_ against the unforgiving span of Fenris’s dark armor.

Aidan licked his lips, and Fenris growled again, eyes following the motion. “I’m not sorry,” Aidan said. His voice was suspiciously husky, and Fenris pressed forward in unconscious response, driving their hips together. The flare of _need_ was so strong Aidan had to scrabble against the slick stone wall, trying to find purchase. _Fuck_. “I told you a very, very long time ago how I felt. Whatever you want from me, whatever you need, it’s yours to take with no questions asked.” He wet his lips again, hyperaware of the weight of this moment, as if both of them were holding their breaths. As if the whole world was holding its breath. “I love you, Fenris. That’s never going to change.”

“I could hurt you,” Fenris said, both hands dropping to the wall on either side of Aidan’s head, pinning him in and yet moving so slowly Aidan had plenty of time to break away if he wanted.

He didn’t want to; he _never_ wanted to.

“I know,” Aidan said. He wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the risk he was taking baring his heart to this man. “But I promise you, Fenris, it would hurt a hell of a lot more to try to deny just how irrevocably I am _yours_.”

Fenris pushed forward with bared teeth, driving Aidan’s hips back. The surge of pleasure was so intense that he cried out, scrabbling at the front of Fenris’s spiky armor. For once, Fenris did not try to pull away. “I want you,” Fenris said. His gaze was predatory, hot.

Aidan gave a shaken, breathless laugh. “I’m getting that impression, yes. But…remember, if you take me—” He broke off when Fenris growled again, his face pressed close to the bared arch of Aidan’s throat, his breath scalding hot. Aidan swallowed hard. “If you _take me_ , the bond will form. I won’t be able to stop it. You’ll be…tied to a mage.”

“To you,” Fenris said; Aidan could feel each word against his hyper-sensitized skin.

“Yes,” he managed. Maker, he wanted nothing more than for Fenris to brush his lips across his skin—to _bite_. “You’ll be bound to _me_.”

Fenris made another noise, grip tightening on Aidan’s hips. It was so hard, so desperate, that he could almost imagine bruises blooming against his pale skin. That shouldn’t have turned him on so much, but oh Maker, did it ever. “And you will be mine,” Fenris murmured, mostly to himself. “No one could take you from me.”

He felt like he was going mad. Pinned against the wall, Fenris’s body tight against his, the punishing jut of his armor somehow hotter than bare skin and Fenris’s mouth so close to the join of his neck and shoulder that each breath sent dizzy waves crashing through him… He shifted up, arching his hips, and ground his aching cock against Fenris’s hip in response. “No one,” Aidan said, closing his eyes as he dragged in a broken breath. “Not now, not ever.”

Fenris was quiet for a long minute, breath hot on his skin, hands gripping tight. Then he nipped Aidan’s shoulder _hard_ before looking up to meet his eyes—watching him through his lashes, expression stone cold serious. _Earnest_. There was a wealth of emotion in those dark green eyes, visible now as Fenris seemed to slowly, one by one, pull down all the walls he always kept between him and the entire world. The sudden flare of vulnerability, of _hope_ , stole Aidan’s breath.

“Yes,” Fenris said simply. And then: “I…love you as well.”


	36. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Some mild references to Fenris experiencing sexual trauma in the past.

  


_I…love you as well._

The words had come haltingly, awkwardly, despite the fact that they had been poised on the tip of his tongue for weeks now. _Longer_. Maybe from farther back than he could remember, trapped deep in the Fade where Aidan used to watch him dream.

He… _loved_ this man. This mage. This impossible creature who was smiling at him as if he hung the sun. It was overwhelming and wonderful and terrifying all at once, meeting Aidan’s eyes and allowing him to see everything he was feeling the way he never had before. Fenris felt _naked_ standing there. He felt, strangely, powerful.

He felt like cupping the line of Aidan’s jaw and spouting all sorts of earnestly romantic nonsense about never again being alone—and really, it was doing them both a kindness to press forward and swallow whatever nonsense either of them could have said on a kiss instead.

Aidan didn’t hesitate in his response. He immediately rocked closer, lips parting in welcome. That shouldn’t have been a surprise—Aidan had always responded like wildfire to him—but, Maker, it hit him _hard_ this time, nearly rocking him back on his heels.

He wanted this. Void take him, magic or no, forever or not, he _wanted this_. He wanted to take whatever Aidan had to offer and cleave them together for all time; to always be able to reach out and know this was his.

_His._

There had never been anything that had been wholly _his_ before, untouched by his masters. Unpolluted. Perfect. _Mine_.

Fenris dropped his hands down Aidan’s body to grip his hips with a low growl, yanking them flush together. If he could meld them physically as well as…whatever it was that would happen later…he would, nails digging sharp points into muscle, tongues slicking together. Aidan made a noise that should have been obscene it was so needy, and it was all Fenris could do not to shove him back and— 

And take him, _consume_ him. There was a violence to his desire, thrumming just beneath his skin, but Fenris reined it in sharply and focused instead on the rapid rise and fall of Aidan’s chest. The gust of his quickening breaths. The electric thrill as Fenris teased the tip of his tongue along the corners of Aidan’s lips and scoured deep into the hot welcome of his mouth.

_Fuck._

Kissing Aidan was like nothing in Fenris’s experience. It was desperate, gasping, heady enough to make the world pitch and sway and bleed into senseless impressions of color around him. He shoved Aidan back, snarling possessively, and jerked their hips together in a wordless demand. Maker, the kiss was hot enough to make him nearly frantic with the desire for _more_ , yet sweet enough that he swore he could be content to stand here and just sink into Aidan’s warmth forever. The impulses it spurred to life within him—all soft-edged and tender as a void-taken Orlesian poem—were almost as surprising as they were unwelcome.

Well…maybe not entirely unwelcome.

Fenris relented, giving them a moment to drag in rasping, serrated breaths before stepping forward again, _driving_ Aidan back against the wall. One hand came up on impulse, knuckles taking the brunt of the blow, fingers twining in dark curls that were only just beginning to grow out again. He tipped his lover’s face, catching Aidan’s tongue between his teeth and scoring it lightly, then _hard_ , riding out the ragged buck of Aidan’s hips—the grind of his cock—with a pleased sound. It felt _good_ to make Aidan feel good. Maker, it would feel even better to finally just rip away the lingering spiderwebs of _want_ connecting them and take. And take. And _take_.

 _Mine_ , Fenris thought, biting his way down Aidan’s jaw toward the bared line of his throat. _You are mine_. He worried the pale skin with his lips and teeth and tongue, sucking away each rough scrape. Aidan was shuddering so perfectly in his arms, gasping, arching, collapsed back against the wall as if that and the hard press of Fenris’s body were the only things keeping him upright. Fenris wanted to yank open the front placard of his tunic and kiss-and-bite his way down to tightening nipples. He wanted to _taste him._

One hand was already tearing at the front of Aidan’s leathers, sharp tips of his gauntlets ripping through the rough cord serving as belt. Each time he twisted his wrist, his knuckles brushed roughly against his erection, tearing a cry from Aidan’s throat, and the thought of touching him, of taking him, of having him… Finally, finally, finally.

Fenris tore his mouth away on a gasp, cock hardening painfully in response to the other man’s moan. Aidan’s breath came hot and desperate against his lips. He nearly pressed in for another blistering kiss, but Maker, if he did, there would be no stopping him. They’d kiss and kiss until they were a tangle of sweaty limbs on the cold flagstones, rutting before the fire.

He shuddered. “I would take you here,” Fenris murmured, hips pushing forward; his words caught on a low growl at the feel of their cocks rocking together, already hard enough it was its own kind of madness, “but I would rather not be interrupted by the return of that _elf._ ”

“Or Anders,” Aidan said, throaty, and gave a breathless laugh when Fenris snarled and drove him back against the cold stone once more.

“Do not,” Fenris mock-snarled, snagging Aidan’s wrists and shoving them over his head. He pressed them back against the stone just shy of too hard, riding out the unsteady buck of Aidan’s hips with a vicious curl of pleasure. “Do not so much as think of that man when we are here. You are _mine_.”

“I am yours,” Aidan breathed, lashes fluttering.

“And I will have you.” The promise of that was so core-deep satisfying that he couldn’t help himself—he shifted, straining erection dragging across the sharp hollow of Aidan’s hip with a rasp. Aidan hissed a breath and tried to arch up into it, grey eyes dilated wide and beautifully dark. His lips were parted, silver-pale scars a mimic of the lyrium that had stolen so much of Fenris’s life, and yet—

On him—

 _Only_ on him—

—the familiar, hated markings were _beautiful_. Fenris sucked in a breath and dropped one hand to the clasp of Aidan’s tunic, twisting hard. The shred of heavy velvet was _deeply_ gratifying, as was the way Aidan’s head dropped back as if he were overwhelmed.

“Fenris,” he breathed.

“I want to see what is mine,” Fenris said, dragging the points of his gauntlet down down down the front of Aidan’s tunic—shredding it easily until it parted, cloth sagging in flimsy strips. Aidan was built like a warrior, broad-shouldered and big, _those scars_ like silver paint against a deep Ferelden gold. His chest was lightly furred—so different from Fenris’s own—dark hair increasing as it arrowed down the stark line of his abs to disappear into the waist of his pants.

And below, _Maker_ , the tell-tale bulge of his erection; big, hot…he wanted his mouth on it. He wanted his mouth everywhere. He wanted—

Aidan sucked in a breath, chest rising and falling. With his arms obediently still raised over his head, he looked like an etching from one of Varric’s filthiest novels, utterly debauched, completely at Fenris’s mercy. Like a…like a pleasure slave, and no, as hot as the initial impression was, _that_ wasn’t what Fenris wanted.

He stepped back.

Aidan immediately straightened, brows drawing together in concern, arms dropping. He felt the change in moods as if he could scent them on the air. Or maybe more than that, Fenris thought, eyes dropping to the floor even as he tugged off his gauntlets and tossed them aside, one after the other. Maybe Aidan could already _sense_ what he was feeling through the beginning flickers of their bond—the endless, crashing waves of desire and hope and fear and _love_. Hopeless, helpless love blended in equal parts with terror.

He was going to fuck this up. He didn’t know how to be gentle.

“Fenris,” Aidan murmured. He shouldered off the shredded remains of his shirt and reached up to cup Fenris’s face; the broad strength of his palms was incredible. Everything about him was incredible. “You don’t have to be afraid. I would never, never do anything you didn’t want.”

“That is,” Fenris began slowly, looking up through his lashes, “not what disquiets me.” Which was as close as he’d ever be able to get to admitting the _real_ fears skittering through his thoughts: Aidan would never force anything on him, no…but would he ever admit the truth if Fenris did the same to him? “I do not wish to discuss it.”

Aidan’s brows drew together again as he studied Fenris, as if he were trying to puzzle out the trajectory of his thoughts, but he was already nodding. “Okay,” he said, thumbs brushing across Fenris’s cheeks. “Whatever you want.”

“And what is it _you_ want?”

Aidan laughed—a gentle sound—and dropped his hands. He stepped away, brushing past Fenris and pivoting smoothly, moving with the same easy grace he brought to battle even as he rolled his shoulders, letting the ripped tunic fall to the flagstones in a whisper. One big hand dropped to the waist of his pants, and Fenris couldn’t help but watch, transfixed. The way Aidan’s thumb flicked over the copper button, then easily thumbed it open to reveal a tantalizing expanse of dark hair winding down down down…

“Oh,” Aidan said with a crooked half-smile. Fenris jerked his eyes back to his face, flushed hot and hungry. “I can think of a few things.”

Fenris took a step closer, then another, growling low in his chest when Aidan just grinned wider and took a step _back_. They were moving toward the stairs, Aidan _slowly_ unbuttoning the placket of his trousers; he hooked his thumbs into the waist of his pants, letting them sling so low they were barely decent. The sharp wings of his hipbones were so elegantly poised, Fenris wanted to lave them with his tongue; he wanted to suck harsh bruises from tip to tip. He wanted to _bite_.

“Maker, it drives me crazy when you make that noise,” Aidan murmured, inching them lower, lower, with each backward step. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. “All I can think about is how much I want you to hold me down and make me take you.”

He bared his teeth at that, lunging forward, but Aidan was _fast_. He suddenly turned and darted up the steps, laughing, leathers hitting Fenris square in the face as Aidan finally kicked them free. The pound of his feet was counterpoint to the surge of Fenris’s blood, and Fenris grabbed for the discarded pants and flung them aside before grimly giving chase—fingers working at the hinges of his greaves, his breastplate, his pauldrons. They clanked around him, falling like dead leaves in his wake, as he followed the sound of Aidan’s husky laughter into his bedroom.

 _Their_ bedroom, if all those warm, earnest promises were to be believed.

The fire was built nice and high still, giving the familiar room a soft glow. The bed was neatly made, but Aidan had stripped back the blankets already, leaving pristine white sheets to frame his curly dark head and big, muscular body. Aidan grinned, stretching out _naked_ , one hand almost shyly hovering over the hard bobbing length of his cock.

Fenris let his breastplate fall from nerveless fingers and kicked the door shut behind him. His eyes dropped up and down the length of Aidan’s body in a slow, claiming caress. That stark possessiveness from before was clamoring inside his head again at the sweet flush that broke across Aidan’s cheeks, neck, chest. Repeating over and over again like a mantra, a promise:

_Mine. Mine. Mine._

Aidan licked his lips and slowly dropped his hand, sitting up. Completely naked, there was no hiding the powerful shift and play of his muscles. The firelight hit the line of his scars, wending down his chest, his stomach, fanning over his hipbones and across his thighs. The sight stole Fenris’s breath; it made everything inside him twist in comingled _want_ and _horror._

His darkest moment, the time when he was most vulnerable…and Aidan had shared it with him. Aidan had experienced every agonized second with him, and he still had love to give. If Fenris didn’t believe in this thing between them before, he did now.

“You are,” Fenris began, pushing off his leggings. He could feel the answering flush of heat at Aidan’s hungry stare; they had teased around the borders of this thing between them many times, but this was the first he’d allowed himself to be stripped bare, vulnerable. 

He took a step forward.

“You are…” The words didn’t want to come. They felt heavy on his tongue, too big, too important to be lightly spoken. Fenris stopped when he reached the end of the bed, gaze sweeping down Aidan’s form. His pulse was rushing in his ears, so loud it almost drowned out the harsh rasp of his breath. The moment felt heavy between them.

“I am?” Aidan murmured, rising to his knees. He moved toward the foot of the bed—toward Fenris—lower lip catching between his teeth. Firelight made art out of the ripple of his muscles, the heavy bob of his cock.

Fenris shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than in answer, and reached out to rest his palms on either side of Aidan’s hips. That made him go still, breath audibly catching. Fenris looked up through his lashes to meet Aidan’s eyes, leaning in slowly, slowly, slowly until his cheek nearly brushed the flushed head of Aidan’s erection. “You know what you are to me,” Fenris finally said, his voice a throaty growl. He turned his cheek to press his lips against the low swirl of Aidan’s scar where it traced the sharp wings of his hipbones.

“ _Maker_.” A big hand dropped to the back of Fenris’s skull and all he could do was hum in approval as he dragged his lips across the delicate whorls—following the way they traced up Aidan’s quivering belly, then back down to frame his hips again. He flicked his tongue across the raised scar tissue and rode the unsteady buck of Aidan’s hips. “ _Fenris_.”

He reached up, pressing his palms against Aidan’s broad chest, and gently pushed. Aidan fell back with a breathy hitch, dropping against his elbows, then scrambling back to sprawl amongst the pillows again. Fenris pressed a knee to the mattress and followed him up, catching one ankle as Aidan’s legs spread out to bracket him; his other hand slid up the trembling length of Aidan’s thigh—

He wet his lips, stomach twisting in anticipation, then turned his cheek to press soft kisses along the familiar marks spanning Aidan’s calves. Up to his knees.

Aidan let out a gusting breath. “You’re set on driving me insane, is that it?” he said. There was palpable affection threading through the words; Fenris grunted in response, tracing his tongue up the tensed muscle of Aidan’s thigh. His grip curled possessively around Aidan’s hips, keeping him _still_ even as he stroked his thumbs along the arc of his hipbones; his thumbnails rasped delicately over skin, and Maker, Aidan was so hard. The scent of his arousal, the way his hips bucked beneath his grip, the sheer flush of _power_ he felt knowing he had the mage completely at his mercy…

He turned his face, pressing hot, biting kisses across the cradle of Aidan’s hips, his own stomach tightening at the breathless cries Aidan didn’t bother trying to bite back. _Maker_. “Hawke,” Fenris growled, partly in warning, partly in…fuck, he didn’t know anymore. He just wanted to say the word. “ _Hawke_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aidan breathed, fingers tangling in his hair, and the plea caught in his throat—the sound of his voice gone rough and needy—was enough to break Fenris’s resolve.

He surged forward, nails digging hard into the narrow jut of Aidan’s hips, and caught the head of Aidan’s cock between his lips. It was slick, _wet_ , hot against his tongue—and fuck, fuck, the noise Aidan made, tearing in his chest, was nearly enough to have Fenris thrusting blindly against the mattress. He moaned—they both moaned—and sank down as far as he could manage, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxed his throat and just…

He’d done this before, many times, but never, never had he felt this kind of desperate desire to please. Never had he felt pleasure of his own at the act—heat unspooling in messy waves inside him as he rode out the needy buck of Aidan’s hips, swallowed around the thick length of his cock, _wanted more_. He _wanted_ those fingers tangled in his hair, _wanted_ the sharp cries, _wanted_ the taste of Aidan’s precome on his tongue as he swallowed wetly and bobbed his head lower, taking all he could.

And knowing Aidan could shift his grip to snarl fingers deep into his hair, could fuck up with a hard thrust of his hips and _force_ Fenris to take more of him—knowing he could do so much to turn the tables on Fenris when he was vulnerable like this, and yet, knowing Aidan never, ever would…

It was…it was a revelation, it was… _This_ was what it was supposed to be like. Feeling pleasure at the giving of pleasure.

Fuck. It was almost too much.

He let his throat muscles relax, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to the drag of Aidan’s cock over his stretched lips, to the heaving, desperate rasp of his breath. To the knowledge that he could make Aidan come like this, if he wanted. That level of power was a heady thing.

What could have been minutes or hours later, Fenris pulled back, letting Aidan’s cock slip free, and dragged in a gasping breath. Aidan immediately loosened his grip, fingers stroking through his hair— _petting_ lightly, encouragingly. His thumb brushed along the sharp shell of Fenris’s ear and the tenderness in that one gesture made his eyes burn with tears even as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses across Aidan’s belly.

 _I love you_ , he thought fiercely, hands moving restlessly across Aidan’s body. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Fenris,” Aidan murmured, then cleared his throat. His voice was hopelessly husky. “ _Fenris_ , I—Here. I want—”

“Yes,” Fenris agreed, even before he knew what he was agreeing to. He rose up onto an elbow, chin slick and jaw sore, wanting whatever it was Aidan wanted. _Anything_ , he could have said; was pretty sure his eyes said for him.

Aidan flushed, eyes shining back dark and needy. He bit his lower lip and Fenris growled, suddenly wanting to bite it for him—but then he was rolling away just far enough to scrabble at the bedside table, pulling open the drawer.

Fenris moved up onto his knees, sitting back on his heels as he watched Aidan. He was straddling his thighs, feeling the way the muscles shifted beneath him. On impulse, Fenris reached out and curled his fingers around the thick length of Aidan’s cock. It was scalding hot, slick from his own mouth, and the _noise_ Aidan made was a punch to the gut. Aidan jerked his hand, and there was a deafening _crash_ as the contents of the drawer went scattering across the floor.

Fenris paused, hand midstroke up Aidan’s cock, and arched a brow.

Aidan flopped back amongst the pillows, flushed bright red. “Oops,” he said. He cleared his throat, then set a small jar of some kind of salve by Fenris’s knee. “Your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?” He tightened his grip, twisting a little as he finished the caress.

Aidan arched, shoulders digging into the mattress, back lifting in a sinuous bow, mouth falling open when Fenris slid his fist down again, thumb pressed tight along the sensitive undershaft, _feeling_ the pulse of that hardness. Precome made the head glisten, and he licked his lips again, wanting nothing more than to drop onto his belly again and swallow Aidan down to the root.

But then the mattress dipped beneath his shifting weight, and that little jar rolled against his knee, catching his attention.

Fenris shifted his grip, slicking his hand up Aidan’s cock even as he reached for the jar. It was small and dark, stoppered with cork. There was some kind of aromatic salve slick around the rim. He frowned.

“What—?” Fenris asked, uncertain. Surely, _surely_ Aidan didn’t mean…

He looked up, meeting Aidan’s eyes. His breath stuttered in his chest, and fuck, he was so hard. It _hurt_ , cock straining at the idea even as the rest of him rejected the suggestion outright. No, no, he’d experienced this before, many times on the other end, and it never, never was anything but pain. He _would not_ —

“Fenris,” Aidan said, gently catching his hips when Fenris began to slither away. He sat up, abs tightening, hands sliding up his back until Fenris’s arms were gently trapped between their chests, Fenris’s thighs stretched wide over his hips.

They were face to face, one of Aidan’s big hands cradling the back of his neck, his breath warm against Fenris’s cheeks and those grey eyes warm and _loving_ and so close there was no hiding from them. “Fenris, what’s the matter?”

“I will not,” Fenris began, then let the words go as he pressed in even closer, lips catching the corner of Aidan’s mouth; his jaw; his chin. “I will not hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Aidan promised. He tried to turn toward Fenris’s roving mouth, tried to kiss him; each shift of their bodies drove their cocks together, hard and hot and so incredibly good, and Fenris wanted nothing more than to believe him. “You _won’t_ , Fenris. It’s supposed to feel good.”

 _Supposed to_. He scoffed at the words even as he let Aidan catch him in a long, blisteringly hot kiss. Aidan brushed his tongue along his lower lip and Fenris opened up with a broken noise; the intimate slick of tongues was enough to make him shiver and rock forward. Hot, wet, stroking deep, deeper; he curled his hands into fists even as his knees gripped Aidan’s waist. Every time he pressed forward, their bellies rubbed together, erections trapped between them, aching. 

He could come like this. They didn’t _need_ more.

But, ah, Maker, Aidan had put the image in his head, and he couldn’t _not_ wonder what it might feel like if he could take Aidan without hurting him. If he could press inside his body, could _claim_ him so thoroughly.

His cock hardened at the thought; his body felt like a closed fist.

Fenris hissed a breath, sucking at Aidan’s tongue, almost in retaliation for _those thoughts_. He was painfully aware of that little pot of salve sitting so near, taunting him, filling his head with images of… Of Aidan sprawled beneath him, gasping, knees drawn to his chest. Of heat. Of the slow, reluctant give of his body. Of vise-like pressure and pleasure and—

“Fenris,” Aidan gasped, fingertips trailing down the back of Fenris’s neck to his tense shoulders. “It’s okay. Whatever you want. We’ll do whatever you want and nothing more, I promise.”

Fenris pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. He’d been growling again, he realized, low and threatening deep in his chest. But Aidan had read the anger in that growl all wrong—he wasn’t upset with _Aidan_. He was angry with himself, for wanting this thing he _knew_ could bring little more than pain and shame. For not being able to banish the desire.

He _didn’t_ want to hurt Aidan. He would go to great lengths to keep him from hurting. He _loved_ him the way he couldn’t remember ever loving anyone or anything else, and he would willingly spend his life bonded to and by magic if it meant always being by his side, but…

But…

Maker, he did want _that_. He wanted to claim Aidan just as thoroughly as he himself was being claimed.

“I want,” Fenris began haltingly, then stopped. Swallowed. “I do not know how to do it without hurting you.”

The noise Aidan made was soft and a little broken, but when he cupped the back of Fenris’s neck and leaned in to meet his eyes, there was no pity in his gaze. There was nothing but love. “It’s all right,” Aidan soothed. He brushed their lips together in the softest of kisses. “I’ll show you.”


	37. Aidan

His skin felt hot and too-tight within the cage of his bones. His heart was beating so hard and fast he felt a little lightheaded from it. Breathless.

Lost in a pair of earnest green eyes.

“Fenris,” Aidan said, clearing his throat when it came out far, far too husky. He was so turned on he barely knew what to do with himself. His entire body was thrumming like a struck chord, and it was all he could do not to fall against his lover with a needy moan. Just…press him down against the mattress and feed off the heat of his tongue, hips slotting together the way they always seemed to, perfect, perfect, perfect, _Maker_ , so perfect and hot and…

He wet his lips; Fenris watched the dart of his tongue, his own lips parting, and void take him, that just wasn’t _fair_.

“Aidan,” Fenris echoed after another long, tense moment of silence. Aidan wondered whether he could feel it, too—the bond humming between them, growing stronger and stronger with each syncopated heartbeat. Over the last weeks, Aidan had been forced to wrestle back that… _yearning_ inside him, that need to sink into Fenris so completely he lost pieces of himself inside. It had been like fighting the wind, or boxing the rise and fall of the sea. It had been _exhausting_.

He could hardly believe that now, finally, he didn’t have to hold back any longer.

Fenris reached out, carefully wrapping his fingers around Aidan’s wrist. It was the hand that held the little jar of slick, and, _oh_ , the feel of those fingers against him took on a whole new meaning when his brain was swirling with images of Fenris pushing him back against the pillows. Fenris growling as he shoved Aidan’s thighs apart. Fenris sliding _those fingers_ deep, deep, _deep_ inside him.

“I can show you,” Aidan repeated, voice wobbling, “what I do to myself. I’ve never been with anyone,” _I never will be with anyone but you_ , “but I sometimes…” He trailed off.

Fenris pressed closer, teeth flashing in something that could have been a smile or a grimace or a snarl. From the glint in his eyes, Aidan figured it was somewhere between all three. “But you sometimes,” he prompted, pressing his face into the curve of Aidan’s shoulder. He brushed his lips along the tight line of muscle, tongue flickering out, _tasting_. And then, growl rumbling low in his chest, Fenris sank his teeth into Aidan’s skin.

Aidan jolted, gasping, cock painting a wet stripe of precome against his abs. His legs jackknifed against the bed and he swore he could feel that nascent bond straining against his control like a blood-mad mabari, needing. Needing, fuck, Fenris.

“Fenris,” he breathed, voice catching when Fenris just teased the tip of his tongue along the shallow marks left by his teeth—one by one by one, swirling across the indentations.

“Tell me.” Fenris was pressing closer with each breath, all but straddling Aidan’s lap. When he shifted, his cock brushed Aidan’s, sending a stuttering shower of sparks through his body. One hand still gripped Aidan’s wrist just shy of too tight; the other slid up into his hair, fingers snarling, keeping his neck bared for his tongue and _teeth_.

Aidan closed his eyes and fought not to moan. He was writhing underneath him, hips hitching in quick, helpless jerks. Andraste take him but he wanted to come like he’d wanted nothing before in his life. “I-I sometimes lay here, after I’ve come back from seeing you,” he managed. Each word felt like a monumental struggle. “ _Hard_ , just from kissing you. Sometimes I just, just take myself in hand and— _Fenris_ ,” he gasped, eyes flying open at the feel of Fenris’s calloused grip dropping from his wrist to circle his cock.

Fenris squeezed tight in warning. “Keep talking,” he growled.

Keep talking? He could barely _think_. Fumbling, hands trembling, he blindly worked the cork off the bottle of slick with his thumb. “I, um, I stroke myself,” he said, hips bucking nearly hard enough to knock Fenris back at the first hard swipe of his lover’s fingers, “and I, I, I… Maker, Fenris, please.”

Fenris nuzzled against his neck, then along his jaw, breath coming in quick, harsh pants. When Aidan shifted again, Fenris shifted with him, very deliberately rubbing himself against him—like a cat. Aidan had never figured he’d be a cat person, and okay, wow, he was clearly _losing his mind_ he was so turned on.

“What else do you do?” Fenris husked. He stroked his thumb across the head of Aidan’s cock experimentally, riding out the next helpless jolt of his hips. His lips were very near Aidan’s again, breath fanning hot against his cheek and chin. “ _Aidan_ , tell me.”

“I get my fingers wet with, with slick.” He couldn’t seem to control the unsteady hitch of his words. His entire body was thrumming, inside and out. His magic was swirling up at the base of his skull and he felt like he might come bursting apart at the seams at any moment. He loved this man _so much_. He wanted him _so much_. 

He couldn’t truly believe he was finally allowed to have this.

“I draw my legs back and spread my thighs and I… I start to press my fingers inside.”

Fenris’s hand went still on him, mid-stroke, and Aidan couldn’t swallow back the whimper. But before he could say anything more, Fenris was skittering back lithe as a breeze, eyes locked hungrily on him.

“Fenris,” Aidan began.

“Show me.”

 _Show me_. Void take him, spoken like an order in Fenris’s husky voice, it was nearly enough to make him spill over before his eyes. Aidan bit his lip hard, falling back amongst the pillows with a ragged _whump_. He’d never felt more powerful than he did now with Fenris watching him— _devouring_ him—as Aidan twisted his hips and dragged his heels across the bed to brace himself against the mattress and _spread his thighs_ wide as he could manage.

Fenris made a soft noise, closer to a breath than a true vocalization. His eyes were locked on Aidan and his lips were parted.

Biting the inside of his mouth hard, Aidan set the little jar by his hip and dipped his fingers inside. He reached down slowly…teasing, just a little; figuring that after all this time, he had something like the right…and brushed slick fingertips across his entrance. Slowly. Lightly.

“Aidan,” Fenris warned. Then, “ _Hawke_ ,” when he deliberately circled himself. Fenris’s hands were clenched on his thighs, the muscles cording his arms tight tight tight.

“If you go slow,” Aidan murmured—then cleared his throat. “If you go slow, and use plenty of slick, it doesn’t have to hurt. You just…” He drew in a breath and pushed the tip of one finger inside, _thrilling_ at the way Fenris growled in response. His heart was racing like mad in his chest and he felt so lightheaded he almost feared he would pass out—and _Fenris was watching him_. Fenris was breathing hard, eyes locked on his body, erection straining and lips parted and, _Maker_ , just drowning in how much he loved Aidan, wanted him, feared him, desired him—

 _It’s starting_ , he thought, gasping a ragged breath; his finger slid deeper into his body even as Fenris’s emotions folded into his own, like flour into batter, like, like…

“I can hear you,” Aidan said, though he knew he wasn’t making any sense. But Fenris just gave a sharp nod as if he could feel it too—as if his skin were electric with the bond snapping slowly into place, finally given the freedom to pull the two of them together the way it had wanted from the beginning.

He dug his heels into the mattress and slowly pressed a second slick finger inside him, feeling the thrum of Fenris’s frightened desire as if it were his own and thinking, together, becoming one: _finally_.

“Fenris.” He pressed his fingers deeper inside himself, riding out the stretched burn with a ragged gasp. Aidan reached out with his other hand, not quite sure what he wanted until Fenris was moving forward, fingers lacing with his. Fenris’s hand was shaking—he was trembling all over, spilling over with the stark terror and joy warring for dominance inside his breast with every moment that passed. Now that he was aware of the growing point of connection, Aidan could feel more and more with every passing second in a confusing, _incredible_ waterfall of sensation.

It was like discovering a sense that had been deadened for years.

It was like walking your whole life and suddenly realizing you could fly.

It was… It was like finding his magic all over again, only this time he wasn’t alone in his own head; this time, he didn’t have to be afraid of what it made him because there was something shining and silver in his chest, and _Fenris loved him_.

Aidan was pretty sure he cried out, but Fenris was already diving close to swallow the noise, responding to the sharp spike of his emotions. He thrust his hands into Aidan’s hair (tugging sharply; loving the dark silk of it but missing that familiar riot of curls) and swallowed his tongue with a growl, even as Aidan arched and began to work himself open in earnest. He could feel Fenris’s decision to kick aside the rest of his clothing, barely breaking the kiss to yank his underarmor over his head before he was pressing in again—slick, hot, needy, tongue stroking in a long, slow glide.

When Fenris’s hand dropped down to join his, fingertips very very lightly teasing along the puckered skin, all of Aidan tightened in a breathless yell—

—and Fenris jerked back, startled.

“This,” he demanded, breathless. His eyes were huge and heavily dilated; his silver hair was a mess. His bottom lip was swollen from where Aidan had been tugging on it with his teeth. “Is it always like this? The bond? Will I always feel you this way?”

_This strongly._

Aidan wet his lips, hips riding up on an unsteady thrust. He felt comforted by the _hope_ that was riding on those words, stronger even than the terror. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He reached over blindly, grabbing the little jar of slick and dropping it into Fenris’s hand. Their eyes locked and held, _arrested_ , arresting. Maker, he could stare into those eyes for hours. “It’s still forming. I… I think I could still stop it now if you wanted me to.”

 _No_.

He wasn’t sure which one of them cried out inside at the mere idea; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he bit his lip and waited—spread open and aching, cock straining against his stomach, heart pounding far, far too fast in his chest. Hope like a needy thing spiraling through his blood as he deliberately tried to close off just _how much_ he wanted this and let the decision be, as it always had been, Fenris’s.

 _I will never force anything on you that you do not want_. Void take him, he had made that promise in earnest. He was not going to go back on it now, as they stood on the precipice of something wonderful and terrifying and new. Something forever.

He could still feel the echo of Fenris even as he tried to hold himself back—the gnawing hunger, the hope, the trepidation. And, most of all, the inevitability of this moment. He knew Fenris’s answer even before Fenris gave a little nod, and he couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face as he looked up into the eyes of the man who would very, very soon be bound to him for life.

Who was already bound by tendrils of love and a mutual hope for the future.

“You are ridiculous,” Fenris murmured, spilling slick across the sheets as he wet his fingers, his cock. His hands were still shaking. He was shaking. Aidan was shaking. The _world_ was shaking. They had really made it to this point, together.

“I know,” Aidan said.

“You are maddening.” He set aside the jar, pushing Aidan’s hands away. His own fingers pressed once into him—three together, deep and slow.

Aidan tipped his head back and let out a long, shuddery breath, his toes curling against the sheets as he opened beneath Fenris’s slow assault. He felt…he had no idea how to describe how he felt. Shocked-deep with joy to realize he didn’t _have_ to describe it, perhaps. Not to Fenris. Not ever again. “I know,” Aidan said. He bit his lip and rocked back against Fenris’s palm.

“You are,” Fenris began, but his voice was breaking up, breaking away, getting lost in the harsh husk of his rapid breaths. His head was bowed as he thrust his fingers deep inside of Aidan, silver hair falling across one eye. His lips were parted, Aidan saw, bitten red. His dark skin was flushed.

“I know,” Aidan managed, but his voice broke on a cry. It felt _so good_ , Fenris’s fingers sliding deeper than he’d ever been able to manage on his own, instinctively knowing exactly how to touch him. Or, fuck, was it instinct? Was it something inherent inside of Fenris, or was it the feedback loop Aidan could feel them tumbling headfirst into—his pleasure spilling messily into Fenris, who responded, who sparked greater pleasure, which poured back into him on and on and on.

 _Is it always like this?_ Aidan wasn’t sure which of them thought it, but there was a tinge of frightened desperation to the words as he arched his back and sobbed in a breath—body a sinuous bow, skin flushed against his scars, beautiful, beautiful, _mine_.

“Fenris, _please_ ,” he managed, heels digging furrows into the mattress, fingers tangling in sheets. Fenris surged forward in response, taking his mouth in a brutal kiss, his answer thrumming between them like a lightning storm: _Yes_.

Just… _yes_. Over and over again, flooding Aidan with fierce, visceral pleasure as Fenris pulled his fingers free. He caught Aidan’s obscenely spread legs in an iron grip, green eyes locked with grey, lips just a breath away. Fenris’s thumbs dragged hot circles along his quivering inner thighs.

“Hawke,” he murmured; Aidan could feel the heat against his own parted lips. He could taste each breath, and give it back in return—each exhale its own kind of feedback loop. “ _…Aidan_. This. I would have you know…”

Aidan let out a shaky breath even as he reached up to brush back Fenris’s hair…and began to smile, thumbs tracing along the pointed tips of Fenris’s ears, hyperaware of the head of his cock pressed against his entrance, slick and precome rubbing tantalizingly hot against the puckered skin.

Fenris swallowed on all the words he still didn’t know how to say and tried again. “I would have you know…” he said.

Aidan lifted his head, neck straining, and brought their lips together again. The kiss was light, soft, almost sacred; everything in him strained toward that point of contact even as Fenris held him open ready to be _fucked_. He flicked his tongue out, brushing along the curve of Fenris’s anxious frown as if he could swallow those words Fenris so desperately wanted to say and keep them inside him forever. “I know,” Aidan breathed when he finally broke away. He pressed his forehead to Fenris’s, opening his heart just as wide as he could—offering Fenris everything there ever was and ever would be of him. “Fenris. I know.”

“ _Aidan_.” 

His name sounded as if it had been wrenched from him, and all at once Fenris was pressing forward with a steady roll of his hips. Aidan gasped, hands dropping back to the mattress as he scrabbled for purchase, holding on _tight_ at the steady and relentless feeling of being, oh, just—

— _filled._

It felt… He’d tried to imagine how this would feel so many times, for so many years, quietly biting his fist to keep back the moans as he pressed fingers inside himself and pretended it was Fenris’s cock. Now, oh, _oh_ , there was no comparison, there was no— He was coming apart, coming alive, very nearly _coming_ full stop just from the growing feeling of pressure and Fenris in his head practically purring with ownership.

Mine, mine, mine.

“Yes,” Aidan gasped, hitching his hips as Fenris pressed the rest of the way in. He was drenched with sweat, stomach muscles clenching tight. His legs had gone around Fenris’s waist at some point, though he couldn’t remember moving, and the way Fenris bared his teeth at him was going to drive him crazy. “ _Yes_ , Fenris. Now do something about it.”

Aidan gave a mental push, testing the boundaries of their bond even as it formed around them, and gave a breathless, moaning laugh when Fenris snarled and _drove_ him back against the mattress. He was aware of harsh, panting breaths and starbursts of pleasure as Fenris reached down to grab his wrists—fingers curling tight and possessive, hard enough to leave bruises in his desperation—and rutted forward with sharp, needy thrusts.

Over. Over. Over. Over again, sending him spiraling even as Fenris drove him hard into the mattress.

“Fen—I—yes, I—” The words got all tangled in his head, heavy on his tongue, and Aidan was only dimly aware he was fighting against Fenris’s grip without truly wanting to be free. Fenris sensed that—Aidan could _feel_ Fenris sensing that—and the bright flash of his teeth was all the warning Aidan had before he was pressing in to _bite_ him, mark him, claim him (mine, mine, mine, echoing again between them, as vital to who they were as the scars that marked their skin) and consume him. Hips rutting forward, cock leaking against Aidan’s belly, fingers tightening and relaxing into fists as Fenris kept him pinned and gasping.

Aware of something building inside him. Something breaking free.

“Fenris,” he managed, not sure whether it was a warning or a victory. Aidan could feel the pleasure building at the base of his spine and expanding outward—bright with magic, almost too good to bear, breaking inside him like an ice spell, like lightning, like fire licking outward, like everything and nothing he’d ever experienced. _Shattering_ with a cry as he felt Fenris experience the first crest of Aidan’s orgasm; as Aidan was wracked by the sudden shock of Fenris’s; as they cleaved together like a closing fist and everything else ceased to matter.

Aidan was dimly aware of the sound of shattering glass, of splintering wood, but it was distant. It wasn’t _this_.

He was with his Voice, he was complete, he was, oh, _finally finally finally_ sinking into Fenris and Fenris into him until the distinction no longer mattered. Until—

(A garden, in a distant land. The smell of citrus and the sea. And nearby, the sound of a little boy singing a sad lullaby to a little girl, trying so very hard to be strong for her. Hating how weak he felt.)

_Leto._

Aidan closed his eyes, lashes wet, and finally collapsed back amongst the pillows. Fenris followed, shaking arms giving out. He fell across Aidan in a graceless sprawl, body curling around him protectively, face pressed into his neck. Aidan could feel Fenris’s emotions like dark eddies: heartbreak at the bright spark of memory, joy at the connection after so long alone, fear and worry and growing panic over what he’d done, followed by—peace, again, when Aidan sent a wave of warmth.

 _I love you_ , Aidan thought, reaching up to brush his fingers through silver hair. His body was still giving off sparks of pleasure, and they shivered together, moaning low when they shifted and their bodies strained. There was a knot of heat low in his belly, and when Aidan stretched again, arching into it, he could feel an answering interest kindle inside Fenris.

Still buried inside him, Fenris’s cock began to firm again.

“Oh,” Aidan laughed breathlessly, turning his head. He looked across his comically ruined bedroom, the windows shattered in brilliant shards across the floor, the wardrobe little more than crumpled clothes and kindling…and even the tub hidden behind its privacy screen was a mess of twisted metal. “I’m not sure the Amell estate can handle a round two.”

Fenris caught his chin, tipping his face back so their eyes met again—grey and green. He inched his hips forward and Aidan whimpered against the painful-pleasurable drag. “Then learn to control yourself, _mage_ ,” Fenris said, smile breaking across his face quick and sharp and _teasing_ before it was gone again.

Aidan laughed again, pressing forward—then using his greater weight to flip them fast, before Fenris could read his intent telegraphed through the bond. He rose over him, big hands braced on the lyrium-bright chest, _moaning_ as the change in angle made Fenris sink deep, deeper inside him. “I-I, ah,” he began, rolling his hips forward. He was more than half-hard again, pleasure building as if it had never left. “I’ll learn, but we may need to put in some, ah!, practice.”

Fenris dropped his hands to Aidan’s hips, deliberately pressing his thumbs hard against the wings of his hipbones. The way things were going, every inch of Aidan’s fair skin would be marked tomorrow—and Maker, he couldn’t wait.

They fell again into a slowly building rhythm—Fenris stretched supine beneath him, urging the steady roll of Aidan’s hips as he moved above, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure cascading through him and, and, and he’d been saying something, hadn’t he? “Some _practice_ ,” Aidan managed to gasp, head falling back. Fuck, Fenris felt good. “A-and—”

The world suddenly tipped, blurred, as Fenris grabbed his hips _hard_ and rolled them over—doubling Hawke’s big body in on itself as he rose up onto his knees and _slammed_ into him. The thrust drove Fenris’s cockhead against his prostate, and they both heaved a gasp at the shower of sparks.

(Both figurative and, embarrassingly, all too literal.)

“Hawke,” Fenris growled through his teeth, dragging Hawke’s knees over his shoulders and pounding into him over and over and over, driving them both back toward the edge. He could feel his powers shuddering inside him, but even better, he could feel _Fenris_. He would never not feel Fenris again. “Shut. Up.”

Aidan gave a gasping, stuttering laugh, riding out each punishing thrust. The headboard slammed against the stone wall over and over, and he felt so happy it was almost a physical ache. No one should be this happy. No one should feel this good. And yet Fenris had giving this to him; they were together, finally. They had beaten the odds. “You,” he began, only to break off on a ragged gasp. His cock was painfully hard now, leaking precome against his belly. He could feel the pressure beginning to build at the base of his spine again and he bore down against it, struggling to hold on. He didn’t want this to end. “You know you love it,” Aidan managed, each word coming out broken in the middle, as if he had no breath left.

As if Fenris had stolen it all with the sudden spike of _perfect_ sweetness as he leaned in, one hand wrapping around Aidan’s cock, Aidan’s legs over his shoulders, green eyes all too serious. “Aidan,” he said, voice gravel-deep—he could feel the _intent_ behind those words, as if he were saying something he wanted Aidan to remember.

Something too big and too vital to allow to be lost in another surge of _want_.

“Aidan,” he said again, cheeks flushed and green eyes serious. “I…” And then, simply, trusting Aidan to understand: “ _Yes_.”

“Yes,” Aidan breathed, getting it.

The kiss that followed was almost an afterthought; he felt as if his heart were breaking in reverse, every piece of him lost over the years coming back together stronger, better, more vital than before—and all around him, in him, through him, Aidan could feel the blinding _love_ Fenris had such a hard time admitting to bright as lyrium and just as addictive.

 _Yes_.


	38. Aidan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Extreme angst ahead, leading to a later happy ending.

Something was wrong.

Something was _wrong_ , but it was also far away, and that distance made it easy to lose track of his certainty. It was hard for anything to touch Aidan here, now. He felt…invincible for the first time. Safe and sound and finally, finally at peace. Ironic, considering he’d spent so many years too frightened to do more than crawl through the landscape of his dreams. And yet…

Aidan was lost in a deep sleep, drifting through the Fade, and for the first time in what may as well have been forever, he was completely unafraid. All his life, he’d had to protect himself against the demons that hunted his sleep—that sought to enter the world through twisting his will. All his life, in those tens of thousands of hours of dreams, he’d had to be wary.

But now… Maker, now he was a bonded mage. Now he could feel the peace, the power, the sheer blinding _light_ pouring radiant from him, as if the scars that marred his skin were lyrium too. As if he were lit up with their power, fierce and untouchable. _Safe_.

The demons kept their distance. The spirits watched him pass with curious looks. The Fade twisted and bent around him, responding to the feeling of fullness inside his chest, the warmth, the belonging, the… The… The fear, and… The despair, the… Loss… And…

No.

No. Something was _wrong_.

Aidan swam up from dreams like a diver breaking water, gasping in his first breath. He turned instinctively even before he was fully awake, reaching for Fenris. They had finally tugged on loose sleeping pants and curled up together on his— _their_ —big bed, one of Aidan’s arms curled protectively around Fenris’s middle. It had felt incredible letting himself touch like that, letting himself have what he’d wanted for so long. Maker, Fenris’s sleepy eyes as he blinked up at him. The heat of his breath against Aidan’s cheeks. The gut-deep knowledge that no matter what happened, when he woke the next morning, Fenris would still be there curled contentedly against him, like a great slumbering cat. He’d thought he could stake his life on that.

He’d been wrong; the bed was empty. Fenris’s pillow was cold.

“Fenris?” he said, casting for that new awareness inside him even as he pushed himself up onto an elbow. He didn’t have to cast far—he _felt_ the solid wall of Fenris’s pain even before he saw him standing there. He’d pulled on the rest of his armor, its juts and spikes foreboding in the fitful firelight. Even if Aidan couldn’t practically taste the dissonant emotion on the air, couldn’t feel its echoes jangling through him like a struck chord, he would recognize the defensive set of those shoulders anywhere.

Fenris was a solid wall of black against him. He was a fortress. He was— He was _hurting_. And for a stunned moment, Aidan was too struck by that pain to know what he was supposed to say.

“Was it that bad?” he finally asked quietly. The question was neutral enough, almost _teasing_ enough, that it opened the door without giving Fenris room to grow defensive. There were so many things he’d rather say, do, but they’d have to wait until he’d felt through this latest complication. _Come to bed_ , Aidan wanted to say instead. Or maybe, even more elemental: _you have to know I would never hurt you. Why are you suddenly so afraid?_

Fenris didn’t even look at him. He didn’t acknowledge the gentle press of his concern, beyond the barest of flinches.

That flinch was like a slap. “Fenris,” Aidan said, sitting up.

Fenris finally turned his head, just enough to be caught in profile. His eyes were downcast, lashes dark against his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said. There was a quaver to his voice, to his thoughts. Aidan couldn’t read them word for word—that wasn’t how a bond worked—but he could feel their whisper running over his skin. His own heart began to pound in response. “It’s not…” Fenris tried to say. Then he swallowed and looked back into the flames. “It was fine.”

Fine.

It was _fine_.

If his withdrawal had been a slap, _that_ was a full-fisted blow. Aidan’s entire world had changed the moment Fenris brought their mouths together. The entire fabric of his life was rewoven—warp and weft, each thread pulling tight—the moment they had bonded, and the thought that Fenris could have gone through the same transformation and say in such a cold tone ‘ _It was fine’_ was…

He had no words for what that was. Instinctively, Aidan tried to pull back on his own flare of hurt, desperate to shield Fenris from it. He must not have succeeded. Fenris turned sharply, dark brows drawn tight as he studied Aidan’s face. “I am sorry,” he said, taking an aborted step forward. Fenris shook his head as it clearing his own thoughts. “No, that is insufficient. It was better than anything I could have dreamed.”

“Then what’s the matter?” He sat on the edge of the mattress, wanting to go to Fenris but not daring. The currents wending between them were far too dangerous for that. Until he knew what was going on, Aidan sensed he should keep his distance and fight to keep his own emotions in check. It didn’t _matter_ if he was wounded by Fenris’s pain—what mattered was that Fenris was feeling pain at all. “Is it the bond? It is…strange, feeling me? It grows easier with time,” he added quickly. “Before long, it will seem natural.”

But Fenris just shook his head, pacing away again. “It’s not that,” he said, visibly agitated.

“Then tell me what it is,” Aidan murmured, “and I’ll help fix it.”

The look Fenris shot him was sharp, incredulous—but it softened after a moment, his expression cracking open to reveal a vulnerability Aidan had never seen before. It was…beautiful. So, so incredibly beautiful, and yet frightening in its own way. _No, don’t_ , Aidan almost said. Because if Fenris didn’t tell him what had gone wrong, then perhaps he could pretend everything in his life for once had gone _right_.

“I began to remember,” Fenris said, either ignoring or not feeling Aidan’s flare of defensive panic. “My life before. Just flashes… It’s too much. This is too fast. I cannot…do this.”

 _I cannot…do this_.

Aidan closed his eyes, silently reeling. What did that mean? He could not _do this_? This conversation? This moment of intimacy? This relationship?

This bond?

 _No,_ Aidan thought. _No. No. No._

He swallowed and forced himself to open his eyes again. Fenris was pacing back and forth, back and forth, gauntleted fingers dragging through his hair. “Your life before?” Aidan tried, keeping his voice perfectly even by will alone. “What do you mean?”

Fenris gestured sharply toward the fire. He was a curled fist, his markings just barely lighting up as he stalked the length of Aidan’s room. Frustrated and feeling cornered. A hunted beast. “When we…bonded…it did not feel any different. No,” he corrected himself, whirling back to look at Aidan. “It felt _good_. It felt right. But later, when I slept, I saw— I’ve never remembered anything from before the ritual. But in my dreams, there were…faces. Words. For just a moment, I could recall all of it.” He reached out, as if to touch the ghosts of his past. Then his shoulders rounded into a slump and his hand dropped. “And then it slipped away.”

“You must have been seeing memories through my eyes,” Aidan said. He rose up onto his knees, needing to move but not daring to draw closer. Not yet. “Back when I used to seek you out in the Fade, I would see glimpses of your life. That’s how I knew about your sister. About the house by the sea, with the citrus grove. Maybe you’re just getting glimpses of my memories in the Fade. Or maybe,” he added when Fenris whirled away with a curse, “bonding jogged something free in your mind. Maybe having…having _me_ there, with you, loosened whatever blocks that ritual put in place. Maybe—”  


“Aidan!” Fenris snapped. Aidan went silent. “Perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting this is. I’ve never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush, only to lose it…” He swallowed hard, looking at Aidan again. That vulnerability was still there, that fear. But beneath it, there was a steely determination that turned Aidan’s stomach into knots. “I can’t,” Fenris said. “I _can’t_.”

And there it was. He could hear the decision in Fenris’s voice, like the first whisper of a goodbye. His own heart was breaking, and he fought against the hot tears, trying to blink them away. This wasn’t the time to, to, to fall apart, to cry, to let himself feel anything at all. Fenris was his bonded. He was his _Voice._ Yes, this was hard—this hurt, this hurt so bad—but they could figure it out. They’d been through worse before. “We can work through this,” Aidan said. “I can help you. We can find the source of the memories, or, or… Or we can bury them, if that’s what you want. I love you, Fenris. I love you, and I will help you. I will always—”

“I’m sorry,” Fenris cut him off—almost as if he couldn’t bear to hear those words. “I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy…just for a little while.”

“But we can be happy. We _can_ ,” Aidan added at the low, broken noise Fenris made. “I know it’s hard to believe that right now, but I promise you, Fenris—we can be so happy together. Let me help you.”

Fenris was already shaking his head, lifting both hands in a warding gesture when Aidan at last began to rise from the bed. “No. _No_. I know you mean well, but I cannot— I _cannot_ — This _will not_ work. I can feel what you are feeling, and I, I do not want— I cannot _do this_ , Hawke.”

Aidan went still, then slowly sank back onto his heels.

Hawke, Fenris had said. Not Aidan, but Hawke.

He wet his lips, struggling to keep the leash on his own emotions so Fenris would not be forced to feel the way they stormed within him. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice perfectly even by sheer will alone. “What do you need? I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

Fenris looked down at his feet, hands still lifted in that warding gesture—as if he were afraid to let them drop, to give Aidan even that much hope. “End this,” he said.

“Fenris—”

“ _End this_.” He looked up again, eyes flashing. “This bond, this _thing_ between us, it was a mistake. I thought it would…” Fenris cursed. “It does not matter what fool thoughts I had. I was wrong. I want it gone; I want you out of my head; I want _peace_. I will not tolerate these memories always threatening to rise again. I cannot. Hawke.” He let out a heavy breath. “I cannot.”

 _I thought I knew what a broken heart felt like_ , Aidan thought, numbly. _Years ago, back when I first lost him. Maker, I was so wrong._

He wet his lips. “I don’t know how to do what you want,” he said, as gently as he could. As evenly, without a hint of the staggering emotion building like a tidal wave inside him. “The bond forms instinctively, through intimacy and— My father never said how to make it _end_.”

Why would he? Why would Malcolm Hawke ever think his son would come to a point in his life where he wanted distance from the only man he’d ever loved? That he ever _would_ love?

Fenris turned his face away. His arms were curled around his middle now, as if he were holding himself back. From going to Aidan? He could only wish that were the case. “You promised me, Hawke,” Fenris murmured. His voice was a low, rough husk, as if every word was being dragged from him. “You _promised_ that you would never force anything on me.”

 _Oh. Oh, Maker_. Aidan closed his eyes, unable to swallow back the tears anymore. He jerked his chin once in a nod, silent. What could he possibly say to that?

“Hawke,” Fenris began.

“I’ll figure it out,” Aidan said, cutting him off. He wasn’t sure he could bear any more of this. For a handful of hours, he had been so ridiculously, deliriously happy. Fenris had come to him; Fenris had wanted him; Fenris had loved him as much as Aidan loved Fenris. They were together. They were _bonded_.

And now…

Now.

Now he had no words left.

There was a long silence, heavy with everything neither of them was able to say. He could hear each harsh breath Fenris drew, could feel the tremor of his terror and sorrow and fathomless pain even as Aidan fought to keep the walls between them. Even as he fought to give Fenris the peace he asked for. Finally, Fenris released a serrated breath, and Aidan heard the soft scuff of his foot as he turned away.

As he left. For good? _Maker, please no._

“Forgive me,” Fenris said…and then he was gone.

And Aidan was left kneeling in the bed that had been _theirs_ for too short a time, eyes squeezed shut, tears tracing across his cheeks and hands balled into helpless fists, fighting…fighting…

Struggling to hold on as the world came crashing down around him.

He didn’t know how long had passed since Fenris left. Minutes? Hours? The tears had dried, at least—that was something. Aidan knelt on the bed where Fenris had left him, back curved in a defensive bow, forehead pressed against the sheets. His hands curled in them off and on, as if he were testing their give. As if, somehow, having something solid to hold onto could stave off this feeling growing inside him.

_Focus. Focus. Don’t come undone._

Deep inside where he was so numb he almost couldn’t feel the pain anymore, his mind was racing. Tripping over itself as he worked through his options as if this were a problem to be solved and not the end of his world. There had to be a solution. He couldn’t accept otherwise.

_You promised that you would never force anything on me._

_You promised that you would never force anything on me._

_You promised._

_You promised._

_You promised._

_You—_

Fenris was right. He _had_ promised. He had promised, and he had meant it. Did it matter that he’d never dreamed Fenris would want to sever their bond hours after it had formed? No. _He had promised._ And if he loved Fenris— _because_ he loved Fenris—he would find a way to keep the distance Fenris needed between them.

But how?

Maker. _How?_ How, when everything inside him was screaming at him to go find him? When he couldn’t even lift his head without feeling as if the weight of Fenris’s rejection were bearing him down? It. Hurt. It. Hurt. It. _Hurt_. So badly there had to be a new name for it, a new way of conceptualizing just how deep the jagged wound went.

His perfect half, the other part of his soul, his _Voice_ did not want him.

Oh, _oh_ , there was nothing that felt like this. And yet, _he had promised_ , and he would be damned if he went back on his word. Not when it came to this. Not when it meant Fenris was locked deep in his crumbling mansion, feeling the ghost of Aidan’s pain and cringing against memories that may or may not come blooming like bruises beneath his skin.

“Okay,” Aidan said, his voice rough, as if he had been screaming for hours. “Okay. Okay. I can figure this out.”

He’d just…reach inside to where the bond was and find a way to sever it again. It had to be possible. It had _formed_ inside him, hadn’t it? It had come from within, and that meant that the means to stamp it out was within him too.

Aidan squeezed his eyes shut, folding in on himself to press his forehead against the mattress. He could hear Trouble outside his door, whining softly and scratching at the stout wood, but now wasn’t the time for any kind of creature comfort. If he allowed himself to get up—to leave this bed and cross to the door—to crouch down and wrap his arms around his mabari’s neck and bury his face in that soft scruff of fur—he might not find the strength he needed to do this. He might just break up, break away, come shattering apart like badly tempered glass and he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ do that to Fenris. He couldn’t break the promise he had made as a boy barely into the first flush of manhood.

He loved, and love meant sacrifice. Wasn’t that it? Well. Tonight was his time to prove he had the strength to _sacrifice_ when he had to.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low and trembly. He reached for the bond—for his awareness of it—brightly shining, like a tether on his heart. Like…veins shooting through his awareness of himself, of Fenris, of his magic. “Come on, come on.”

It was easier to picture it like an actual heart. There was the artery that tied him to the source of his powers. There was the artery that kept him bound within his own body and mind and spirit. And _there_. Glowing blue-white, like Fenris’s markings, was the bond that tied him to his Voice. It was like a lyrium vein, in a way, Aidan sensed. Beautiful and branching and endlessly complicated. _Alive_ in some very real way. It was… It…

It was beautiful.

Maker. It was so, so beautiful.

 _Fenris_ , he thought, and felt the echo of a response, almost as if Fenris were just out of sight. He could sense the core of him tethered to the other end of this shining vein of magic, as if they had tied red cloth about their wrists, trapping them together. Aidan felt if he just reached out, he would feel Fenris reaching for him in return.

“ _Stop_ ,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. Outside his door, Trouble gave a worried bark. “Stop it. Just— Just _focus_. Do this. Figure this out.”

The tether was trembling, undulating like a chord that had been plucked. _Fenris_ he knew without digging too deep. Fenris was pacing again, agitated. Rubbing at his arms and struggling not to send his fist through the window. Feeling Aidan in his head was not the comfort that feeling Fenris was to Aidan. Instead, it was a _threat_ —of memories he didn’t want, of emotion he didn’t know how to handle, of love he’d never grown comfortable accepting. Probably never would grow comfortable.

The worst part was, the harder Aidan focused on the bond between them, the more agitated it— _Fenris_ —became. He could feel the rising tide of his panic building building building like water against a dam. The pressure was intense, invasive, and Aidan sucked in a breath as it broke over him. Fenris was stalking the length of his room. He was glowing with fitful light.

He was fighting the urge to _flee_ Kirkwall and the sad-eyed mage he found himself chained to. _Chains_. Always, always there were chains, even if some were clipped about your throat with words like _love_.

“ _No_ ,” Aidan said, jerking upright in horror. He was half out of the bed, scrambling toward to door, determined to find Fenris and _make him understand_ —when he stopped and cursed and whirled back around. The windows trembled against the building pressure inside him and flames licked dangerously high in the fireplace. The bed and side tables rattled, and outside, Trouble was _howling_ as Aidan began to pace back and forth, back and forth, unconsciously mimicking the path his almost-lover had taken so shortly before.

His heart pounded triple-time in his chest and his mouth tasted bitter, and—and Fenris was tearing at his throat as if there really were physical _chains_ there, memories bubbling up and threatening to break free, like blisters beneath the skin, like dark boils, like—

“No, _no_.” He covered his face, fire roaring high up the flue, eyes squeezing shut. Maker’s breath, he couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he, no, _no_ , no. In a panic, Aidan grasped blindly for the bond that held them together, ignoring its delicate branching veins and going straight for the root. He could feel the warning sparks inside him, his own magic churning like a storm in his gut. There was a crash of lightning and the sharp _burn_ of frost, but he ignored it, ignored the frantic howls of his mabari, ignored common sense and fear and self-preservation as he fought to protect the man he loved the only way he knew how.

He reached inside himself with every ounce of power and will he had…and he severed the bond at its root.

There was an explosion of light within him, without, Force _slamming_ him back. Aidan was dimly aware of wood cracking, glass shattering, someone—himself—screaming. But inside—

Inside.

 _Inside_.

—there was silence.

His Voice was gone. And in the immediate aftermath, his _voice_ was gone too. He was gone. It was all, all, all gone.

Aidan collapsed to the floor in a boneless sprawl, eyes wide and staring, blank. A flurry of snowflakes disturbed by the fall drifted around him, landing on his lashes before melting away. In the fireplace, the roaring flames quieted. The room went still.

And outside Aidan Hawke’s cracked door, Trouble began a mournful howl.


	39. Anders

It was cold and wet on the Wounded Coast, the new moon hidden by intermittent clouds. Waves crashed into white caps on the breaks below, and he could only see the small knot of former apprentices in the distance if he squinted. There was a moody cast to the evening, the air silver-blue and filling slowly with fog. By the time the sun rose, it’d be impossible to see their hands in front of their faces.

_Good_ , Anders thought, shivering lightly. _Makes it harder to be followed and found._

“Bloody well chose a cold night for this,” Carver muttered, rising from his unsteady crouch. He’d left his Templar armor behind, tucked safely away in the basement of the Amell estate. It was quieter and easier to navigate the sewers without it, he’d explained the first time. Besides—he hated the way the joins of metal and leather seemed to collect the sewer’s stench.

Anders didn’t mind, either way. Having a Templar kitted out in full gear would have been useful if they ever needed to bluff their way out of a near miss, but it seemed more… _fitting_ to have Carver by his side like this. Dressed in his simple homespun and leather, arms bare, biceps rippling with every move. Golden-tanned and _strapping_ and young and so far away from everything Anders now found himself to be that Carver may as well have been from another continent.

Another world.

Anyway, he mused, stealing a glance as Carver stretched out the kinks in all those muscles. It was certainly more of a show like this. Which was getting to be a real problem, wasn’t it?

_Stop_ , Anders told himself, biting the inside of his mouth and humming belated agreement when Carver glanced over at him. _Stop right there, you perverted old goat._

Carver crossed his arms. “You couldn’t have waited for the snap to pass? You just _had_ to choose tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Anders had to fumble for the expected parry. Somewhere along the way, they’d managed to transmutate their old hostility into something very much like _play_ , the banter zinging between them lacking all of its heat but none of its spice. It was an entertaining way to pass the time, at any rate.

And if it reminded him (with a bittersweet pang, like the memory of some long-dead friend) of the man he used to be before Justice came to live in his every thought, well… That wasn’t exactly an unpleasant way to while away the evening either.

Carver’s brows rose; he was clearly waiting for Anders to say more.

_Wake up, old man. Stop woolgathering._ “Is aiding the oppressed _inconveniencing_ you?” Anders finished, lifting his chin. “Is securing freedom for the downtrodden a _burden_ on your evening? Perhaps you’d be more comfortable by the fire nursing a tankard of ale.” Eh, it was weak, but Carver had to cut him some slack—he wouldn’t be fully relaxed until they received sign that the apostates had made it to the boat safely.

“Do you have one handy?” Carver asked. His lips twitched at the corners, as if he were swallowing back a smile. It was funny: even as little as a year ago, Anders would never have believed Carver even knew _how_ to smile. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“To what, a fire?”

“An _ale_. I’ve seen you try to create fire. Thanks, but I’ll pass on that.”

Anders straightened. “ _Hey_ ,” he squawked. “I happen to be excellent at fireballs.”

But Carver just snorted, leaning so their shoulders bumped once together. For all that he had been complaining about the cold, the brush of his bare arm felt wonderfully warm. “If by excellent you actually mean _wispy on top and six feet off-center_. I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve almost incinerated me.”

“Funny—I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve run recklessly into the path of a _perfectly good_ spell.”

“Again, if by _run recklessly_ you actually mean _telegraph my movements so my supposed allies don’t light me up like a Candlemas centerpiece,_ then sure _._ I call out where I’m going for a reason you know,” Carver pointed out. “It’s not my fault you don’t know your left asscheek from your right.”

Anders scoffed. “Oh, is that what you’re always hollering about? I just figured you liked the sound of your own voice.”

Carver suddenly grinned, bright and crooked. “Well, there’s that too.”

That was enough to make him laugh, damn it. Anders turned his face away, snorting, feeling oddly buoyed up inside. Nights like this should have been tense and stifling with fear—he was sure they used to be, before he had Aidan’s annoying brat of a brother tagging along—but now…

Now, he couldn’t help but feel hopeful. Bright and light inside, spirits lifting up up up as he watched a light from the approaching ship flash its message.

“There we go,” Anders said, lifting his staff. He called up a spell—a _fire_ spell, just to prove a point—and let it flash high above their heads.

And if it fizzled a little, going…yes, _fine_ …a little wispy at the top, there was no reason for him to look toward Carver Hawke for confirmation.

Across the inlet, the ship’s lantern flashed again in response. He couldn’t see its longboat slipping into the water, couldn’t hear the slap of oars against the pitching sea, but he could practically _feel_ it coming closer. It would meet the apprentices where they stood huddled against discovery on their little peninsula, and it would row them back to the ship, which would sail them to Ostwick, where a sympathetic member of the mage underground would use his family connections to spirit them away to safety. Trevelyan, Anders thought. Or was it Trevan? Something like that, anyway.

Either way, another quest completed, another group of mages safe, another job well done.

“You can breathe again,” Carver said, voice unexpectedly close. Anders glanced over, meeting his eyes. He felt—Maker, he didn’t know what to call how he felt—flash through him at the softness in that usually guarded face. “You did it.”

“ _We_ did it,” Anders countered. Because Andraste knew he wouldn’t have been able to save so many on his own. Not without risking capture himself. Not without ruining everything.

The crooked smile grew, growing warmer and warmer. There were little lines around Carver’s eyes, Anders noticed. Eyes that, if you looked close enough, held surprising flecks of grey and blue and gold. He supposed it was fitting. Aidan’s eyes were the softest grey he had ever seen, perfectly matching the _gentleness_ inside him. Bethany’s had been bright and flashing, just like her unpredictable spirit, tempered as always by an innate kindness.

Carver… Carver was different. Carver was more complicated. Carver took time and effort and energy to understand—but when he smiled, the gold in his eyes seemed to catch fire, and Anders couldn’t help but grin back.

“Yeah,” Carver said. His voice was surprisingly rough with some unnamable emotion. Some current that seemed to connect them, growing stronger and stronger with every month that passed, every mage they saved. “We did.”

Anders had to look away at that, clearing his throat. He felt oddly flushed and uncomfortably aware of his own body, in the space he inhabited and the way his skin prickled with gooseflesh. _Stop this_ , he told himself, staring out across the turbulent ocean. Up at the star-strewn sky. _Anywhere_ but Carver Hawke. _Whatever it is you think you’re doing, stop it right now before things get out of hand_.

And, because he had to remind himself more and more lately: _it’s all in your head_.

Because it was ridiculous to think that there could be anything but unexpected friendship growing between him and Carver. _Aidan_ was the Hawke he felt a connection to. _Aidan_ was the Hawke who made him feel whole inside for the first time in years. _Aidan_ was the Hawke he wanted now that Bethany was forever gone from him.

…right? No, yes, _right_. Right. He just had to make sure he remembered that in times like these—times when the moonlight and stars and swelling sea and _Carver’s damned smile_ threatened to overwhelm him with unexpected emotion.

“We should think about heading back,” Anders said abruptly, trying to distract his own confused thoughts with meaningless words. He could just make out the new apostates wading out into the water to meet the longboat. There was no point watching over them any longer—if there were Templars ready to strike them all down, they would have done so by now. “It’ll be warmer by your family’s fire.”

“I’ll need to be getting back to the Gallows, anyway.”

Anders turned back to Carver at that, brows drawing together. “Do you have to?” he asked before he could stop himself. He swallowed back the rest before it could come tumbling out and ruin everything. _Stay_ , he couldn’t, wouldn’t say. _Don’t go back to that horrible place, where I know you’re unhappy. Stay here. Stay with me._

With _me_? Maker, he really was losing what was left of his mind.

“Why?” Carver asked. His expression was intent. _Intense_ , as if he were trying to read a scroll in a language he didn’t quite know.

And thank the Maker for small favors. If Carver could peer into his head, there was no telling what would happen. Would he punch him? Kiss him? Grab him by the collar and shake him? _I’m not my sister_. No, no he definitely wasn’t. Even more than that, Anders could honestly say that when he was with Carver, he never once wanted him to be Bethany. Not the way he sometimes listed against Aidan’s side and _wished_ …

Fuck, he was getting all twisted up in his head again. Time to backpedal.

“Never mind,” Anders said with an embarrassingly thin laugh. “Come on. The sewers won’t smell any better an hour from now, and I’d like to get through them and find that fire before dawn.” He tipped his head, trying to keep a meaningless smile wreathing his face, and moved past Carver toward the path that would lead them home.

Before he could get three paces, Carver caught his arm, drawing him to an abrupt stop. Keeping him _close._

Anders froze, heart lurching—the traitor—and breath catching in suddenly too-small lungs. _Oh Maker._ He nearly wrenched himself free, but something made him hesitate—some tension in the air, drawing the hairs at the back of his neck up to electric attention—then slowly, slowly, slowly turn back to meet Carver’s unexpectedly intense expression.

“Yes?” Anders said, voice reedy. Giving everything away.

Carver’s frown deepened. Usually both of them managed to wave off these little moments where their growing friendship crossed subtly into some deeper, more treacherous territory, but something was different about tonight. Maybe it was something he’d read in Anders’ eyes, or maybe it was the high of success blooming through his body. Maybe it was just caprice. Whatever, _whatever_ it was, Carver opened his mouth to retort—something sour, no doubt—then hesitated. Closed his mouth. Swallowed.

Looked away, then back, his own brows inching together into something very like a scowl.

“Why?” Carver finally asked. Anders began to say something glib, but Carver just tightened his grip and shook his arm, scowl deepening. “No. Stop that. _Why_ do you want me to stay?”

Was anything with Carver Hawke ever bloody simple? “Oh, no reason,” Anders said, trying to wave the strange moment off. How could he even hope to put into words what he wanted, anyway? It was so simple, and yet so impossibly complex: a fire in the Hawke family hearth. A mug of ale and a bowl of soup. Trouble snoring at their feet and Merrill and Aidan and Leandra asleep in their beds in the landing above. Firelight playing off the hard planes of Carver’s face as he laughed at some stupid jest Anders made.

Home. Belonging. A family. Someone (Carver) looking at him like somehow, after everything, he was still worth something to someone.

Anders made a low noise, trying to pull away again. This was dangerous; being so close, feeling so much, was _dangerous._ He didn’t even have the ironic distance of the past, and no matter how hard he tried, Anders couldn’t deny that parts of him were…responding…to Carver’s proximity. Carver was handsome, after a fashion. It wasn’t obvious, the way Bethany or Aidan’s beauty was obvious. He didn’t have Aidan’s straight nose or full mouth; he didn’t have Bethany’s rounded cheeks or pointed chin. Some, Anders figured, may have even called him _plain_.

_Anders_ may have called him plain, once upon a time. He couldn’t remember any more how it felt to think so. He couldn’t remember how it felt not to wonder what it would be like to let himself be consumed by this.

“Anders,” Carver said, voice cracking mid-word. His eyes slowly widened, something very much like shock on his face. He must have read something in Anders’ expression, must have… Must have _misinterpreted_ what Anders was thinking, must have…

_Stop lying to yourself_ , Anders thought, grip tightening around his staff. _You’re always, always lying._ And yet it was second nature by now; he didn’t know how to stop. He wasn’t sure he should. “It’s late,” Anders said, voice pitched low.

Carver didn’t respond.

“We’re both exhausted,” he said. An excuse, and a weak one at that, but how could he be expected to think when Carver was _looking at him_ like that? “We should get back. Start fresh tomorrow.”

Carver didn’t respond.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. It isn’t— It isn’t like that.”

Carver didn’t respond.

“All right, yes, fine, I’ve _thought_ about it,” Anders finally snapped. He felt as if he were unravelling—being undone by Carver’s silence. He was never very good at holding his tongue when he was supposed to. “Is that what you want to hear? You and me? This weird thing we seem to have? I’ve _thought_ about it. And I have some very good reasons why it would be a very bad idea to act on those thoughts. I could list them for you. They’re the ABCs of Hawkes.”

Carver? Didn’t respond.

“A is for Aidan. B is for Bethany. C is for _Carver stop that_ , because anything between us would be a very, very bad idea. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see just how terribly this would all end?”

Carver. Did. Not. Respond.

Anders frowned, flustered and wound up higher than he’d felt in years. It was exhilarating, in a way—he felt closer to his old self than ever, emotion winging high inside of him, untampered by Justice. It was funny, how Carver dragged that out of him. It was one of the many reasons Anders found him so infuriating, so insufferable, so absolutely necessary. “ _Excuse me_ ,” he said, glad to have an excuse to flare his temper without worrying about Justice taking over, “am I having this conversation all by myself? Because if so, I may as well have it in the warm house instead of—”

And then the tart words were cut off, lost in a startled yelp, swallowed by the sudden _hard_ press of Carver’s mouth against his own. It happened so fast, Anders barely had time to react. He scrabbled at big—broad—powerful—shoulders, staff clattering to the rocks at their feet and rolling away, instantly forgotten. Carver’s muscular arms bunched and strained, so hot to the touch Anders couldn’t help the muffled moan caught high in his throat.

He was kissing Carver Hawke. This couldn’t be happening.

Oh void take him, this was really, really _happening_. And his whole body was responding like parched earth to a sudden rain.

Anders surged up with a broken gasp, senses overloaded. Carver smelled like leather and steel and, incongruously, lemons. His lips were roughly chapped, but his tongue brushing along the seam of Anders’ mouth was deliciously slick. Soft. _Hot._ Anders parted his lips without really meaning to, listing forward until he was slumped against _all those muscles_. He moaned at the first brush of Carver Hawke’s tongue against his own, arms sliding instinctively around his neck and anchoring there as if he never wanted to be pried away.

It was just, he was just, he only— _gragh_ , his brain was sputtering off into nothing, all the ringing protests dying inside him as Carver dug his fingers into Anders’ hair and tilted his chin for better access. He was shorter than Anders by a couple of inches, but he _commanded_ the kiss as if he could read the bubbling desire sloshing messily inside him—as easy as spellwork and three times as devastating. Anders was on _fire_. He was hardening in his loose robes, hips moving in little, aborted gestures as he desperately tried to keep himself from thrusting against Carver’s solid bulk, nails digging half-moons into the back of his neck. When Carver twined their tongues together and teased Anders into his mouth—when he scraped his teeth across him, then sucked away the sting—Anders _keened_ like a wild animal.

Fully hard. Fully swept away. Fully overwhelmed.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He thrust his tongue into Carver’s mouth, surging up when one of those strong arms caught him around the waist and dragged him close. Carver grunted in surprise at the hot brand of Anders’ cock, but then he was shifting—deliberately pressing a powerful thigh between Anders’ legs—and the way he pressed up just shy of too hard, letting Anders _grind_ against him was, was, was, _fuck_ , was driving him crazy.

Anders scraped at his shoulders, pawing ineffectually, then grabbed a rough handful of black hair when Carver shifted the angle of the kiss and took him _deeper_. The steady tug of his mouth, the hot slick of his tongue, the pure iron of muscle against Anders’ jerking cock and—

And _he could feel Carver’s cock, hard against the jut of his hipbone._

He pulled back with a ragged gasp, hips twisting, eyes gone wide and staring. Carver jerked up his head to meet his eyes; they were blown ridiculously huge, grey-brown-blue ringing nothing but black. His usually stern, sullen mouth was softened by kisses, _slick_. When Carver’s tongue darted out to brush his lower lip, Anders actually trembled.

Holy _Maker_ but he was hard. How, _how_ , how was that possible from just one kiss?

“Um,” Carver said; his voice was pure gravel. It made Anders’ toes curl.

“That deteriorated quickly,” Anders agreed. He barely recognized his own voice. Surely he didn’t usually sound quite this reedy? He swallowed, trying to shift back to put a little distance between them…but every movement seemed to just rock their bodies tighter together, sending sparks pinwheeling through him, holy Andraste. “ _Um!_ ”

Those big warrior hands slid down the curve of Anders’ spine to grip his hips. Tight. Tight enough that Anders wasn’t entirely sure he could break free, even if he wanted to.

That really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

“This is probably a mistake,” Carver was saying, though it was hard to follow his words when his body was _so close_. “That’s what you were saying, wasn’t it? That this would be a mistake.”

“Mmm,” he said, shifting restlessly within that iron grip. Maker’s furry nutsack, what else could Carver’s strength be good for? The visions unspooling in his head were nearly filthy enough to make him moan. He was harder than he’d ever been in his _life_ , just from a single bloody kiss.

“You seemed to be fairly confident that this,” Carver’s hands actually _tightened_ at the word, earning a choked gasp, “would be a mistake.”

Anders bit his bottom lip, fighting the urge to sink back against Carver’s body and steal his mouth in a kiss that might never end. “I say a lot of things,” he pointed out. “When have you ever listened to me before?”

“Well, that’s true enough.” Carver’s kiss-reddened lips quirked into a crooked sort of smile. There was something sweet about his expression—young and hopeful, like he was being offered something he hadn’t dared let himself want. “You talk nonsense most of the time.”

“Hey.”

“I’ve found it’s usually best to just ignore you, actually.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

He was full-on smirking now, a playfulness joining the heat in his eyes. _That_ was very much like his twin, though on Bethany there had always been something catlike about her teasing. Carver was Ferelden dog-lord through and through; his jests showed a hell of a lot more fang. “So…” Carver drawled, grip on Anders loosening as the tension began to seep away. “I take it I was supposed to be listening when you spouted some nonsense about the Hawke ABCs?”

“Oh, void take you,” Anders sputtered, laughing as he finally (finally!) found it in himself to pull away. It felt wrong to put distance between them now—even more wrong to bend and grab his staff, as if his entire world hadn’t been blown off its foundations.

That seemed to happen a great deal around this family. He’d spent so many years building his future on the dream of Bethany Hawke, only to have it shattered on a lonely road out of Lothering. Then he’d reconstructed himself around Justice, only to meet Aidan—and Aidan’s void-taken _Voice_ —and have it go tumbling down again. This mixed-up, unhappy torch he carried for Aidan Hawke was supposed to be the end of the line for him; the tenuous connection he felt for Bethany through her mage brother was, he’d been so sure, the closest he’d ever come to true happiness.

And now…this.

Whatever this was.

Whatever they could let it be.

Maker, his head hurt.

“Come on,” Anders said, shooting a quick look at Carver. Carver was still watching him, lips twisted into a crooked half-smile. He looked years younger when he let down his guard like this. Surely too young for Anders. Nine years, wasn’t it? Maybe ten? He was sure it must have been nine or ten years between them. “We’ll drag ourselves through Darktown and find that fire.”

“And ale,” Carver added, falling into step beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anders could just make out the winking light of the ship vanishing into the fog; their charges had been rescued and everything was well. “And ale,” Anders agreed. He shifted his staff from one hand to the other, casually letting his arm drop. Carver’s arm was just as casual between them, and if their knuckles brushed as they walked—if their fingers met and clung from time to time—it would be only too easy to tell himself it was an accident.

(But his heart leapt every time all the same.)

They wended their way down the Wounded Coast without saying anything more, as if by some unspoken agreement to save this…whatever it was…for the warmth of the Hawke fire. Carver wouldn’t be going back to the Gallows until early morning, Anders knew. He didn’t even have to ask. That certainty was something new between them, too. It was… He wasn’t yet sure what it was, or what it meant. He only knew it made him feel unexpectedly good inside.

_I want to kiss him again_ , Anders thought, leading the way through Darktown. It was quiet this late at night, lost in the witching hour. Even the most determined lowlifes and pickpockets steered clear. _I probably shouldn’t, but I do. I really, really do_.

He closed his eyes against the feeling—then yelped when the ground started to give out beneath him.

“Here,” Carver said, catching him about the hips. He pulled Anders back from the rotting wooden step, flush against the broad wall of his body. Carver’s head dipped forward, breath fanning hot across the back of his neck, stirring lank blond hair. Anders actually _shivered_ with the unspooling awareness. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he said, voice strangled. Giving him away.

Carver hesitated, not letting him go right away. _Please_ , Anders thought, going perfectly still. He had no idea what he was hoping for, begging for, but his whole body was alight with it. _Please, please, please_.

But Carver shifted Anders’ weight a moment later, waiting until he had his feet solidly under him, then let go. “Be more careful,” he said, pitched low. It was enough to make Anders shiver in response. “You know this place is falling apart.”

“Almost there,” Anders said in return. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting Carver’s grey-blue-brown eyes; his skin was electric, his heart a mad thing in his chest. “Come on. There’s a fire calling our name.”

“Yeah,” Carver rasped, and Anders practically stumbled as he hurried forward, wanting to be back at the Amell estate—wanting to be by that blazing hearth—wanting Carver’s hands back on him, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted.

Whatever else should or shouldn’t be happening between them, he wanted _that_ most of all.

He glanced once toward his clinic as he fumbled with the hidden catch that would lead them into the Amell basement. The lantern was dim and doors undisturbed, just the way he left them. A bundle of rags huddled in a far corner lifted its head and gave Anders a subtle nod; he flushed,  aware of Carver just behind him—close, so close, oh Maker, was it obvious to everyone that they had been kissing?—and nodded back. The people of Darktown watched over the clinic, the way they watched over him.

“Well?” Carver said, one hand falling to the small of Anders’ back. The touch was warm, intimate. He shuddered at the contact. “Do you need help, or are your creaky old fingers up to the task?”

“Shut up or it’ll be a fireball in your face,” Anders said, leaning impulsively back against Carver’s heat. He smiled to himself at the other man’s audible swallow…giving into temptation to wriggle back _just_ a little even as he twisted the latch free.

The door swung open. Neither of them moved.

“Home sweet home,” Anders said, glancing over his shoulder. Carver was pressed snug against the curve of his back, his ass; his eyes were blown wide again, impossibly dark. “Walk me up?” It was ridiculous the way giddy happiness filled him at Carver’s quick nod—wasn’t it? Wasn’t this something he wasn’t supposed to want?

_Bethany. Aidan. A Voice_. Carver wasn’t his Voice. There wasn’t an echo there the way there was with Aidan. There wasn’t anything but pure, unexpected affection and warmth and…yes, fine, desire. He wanted Carver. But he _needed_ a Voice—didn’t he?

Anders moved through the basement on autopilot, frowning down at his feet, fighting warring instincts. He should tell Carver to head back to the Gallows. He shouldn’t play games until he was sure what they meant. Carver was too important to hurt in some kind of childish fumbling, and he owed it to both of them to be certain before he did anything more.

And yet, he wanted. Oh Maker, he _wanted_.

“Carver,” he said suddenly, turning. Carver, just a few steps behind, nearly crashed into him. Anders dropped his hands to Carver’s chest even as Carver caught him about the waist, the both of them pulled together as if by a spell.

Carver looked up at him, brows lifted in surprise. His breath was hot on Anders’ face. Sweet. Like mint. _He tastes even better_ , a part of Anders whispered, and he struggled to push that thought away even as his whole body flushed in awareness. Because it was true—it was _true_ —and now that he knew that, he wasn’t sure he had the strength of will to forget it.

_You’re risking too much_ , he warned himself, even as he slowly, deliberately, twined his arms around Carver’s neck. He slid long fingers into dark hair, whole body thrilling at the way Carver’s breath caught in his throat. _You may regret this_.

“Anders?” Carver murmured, a question in his voice. A vulnerability on his face. Carver didn’t talk much about what it had been like being raised the only normal person in a house full of magic. Even his mother had been touched by it, a Voice to her apostate husband. What must it have been like, Anders mused,knowing everyone you loved was special…except for you?

How that must have hurt. How that must have twisted him up inside.

How _strong_ he must have been, to come through that and still be such a good man. Sharp around the edges, maybe, and sometimes petulant, and sulky, and maybe even sour, but… _Oh, void take it_ , Anders thought, suddenly grinning, and tipped forward to catch Carver Hawke’s stupidly perfect mouth in a kiss.

Carver actually _gasped_ into it, shocked alive—but then he was kissing back, just as hard, just as heady. Mouth slanting over Anders’ in a hungry glide, and yes, yes, _yes_. This may not have been anything Anders had thought he wanted, but Maker, _yes_ , he definitely wanted it now. He laughed against Carver’s mouth, lips parting, swallowing the noise he made even as he melted against him. Boneless and sprawling and practically screaming _take me take me take me_ in his head as Carver gripped his waist and kept him close— _devouring_ his mouth as if he needed this kiss to survive, as if—

Somewhere in the house above, muffled by marble and wood and tightly locked doors, Trouble began to howl.

Carver pulled away, chin jerking toward the back steps. “What?” he said, breathless.

“Ignore it,” Anders murmured, trying to tip his face back—but Carver was frowning, brows knit in concern. “Carver. He probably just saw a cat. It’s okay.”

Carver caught Anders’ wrists, shaking his head even as he pulled away from him. “No,” he said; one hand was reaching for the huge sword strapped to his back. “Trouble’s a mabari. He’s too smart for that. Something’s _wrong_.”

“Carver—” he began, but his heart was beginning to race for a whole new reason now. The howls continued, crescendoed, growing louder and louder and more and more _mournful_ with each passing second. It sounded…

It sounded like a funeral dirge.

And then, with a shock of ice, Anders _felt_ the moment Aidan—always a distant, dim presence in his thoughts, bound by blood and magic with Anders’ own long-lost Voice—suddenly disappeared.

“Aidan!” he gasped, stumbling after Carver, who was already racing up the steps. Carver slammed his big shoulder into the door, breaking the lock and cracking the wood. It bounced off the far wall with a _bang_ , but Carver was already charging out of the cellar and into the central hall. Anders followed, stumbling, in his wake. He could feel Justice brimming up under his skin, terror chasing along glowing blue fissures in his arms, his chest, his face. _Aidan, Aidan, Aidan._

Trouble stood at Aidan’s door, pawing at the knob, whining brokenly when Carver cleared the landing. That sound, that terrible, piercing sound, was almost enough to have Anders clapping his hands over his ears, but Carver was already tossing his sword blindly aside and _slamming_ into the door. It cracked beneath the blow, like a branch breaking. He pulled back and slammed forward again.

“Aidan!”

Anders didn’t know, couldn’t tell, which of them shouted it. He could feel the chill of ice nearby, but no matter how hard he scrabbled within his own mind, he couldn’t feel that tenuous connection; he couldn’t feel _Aidan_ , he couldn’t—

The door burst open, Carver stumbling inside, Trouble and Anders at his heels. The air was freezing cold, ice cracking along the floor, room in disarray. Curtains blew in the shattered windows.

And Aidan lay curled on the ground, one arm outflung, body perfectly still, eyes wide and _black_ and staring _._

Anders froze in his tracks, horror-stricken, even as Carver stumbled to his knees before his brother. “Hey, hey, Aidan, hey,” Carver crooned, voice gone incredibly gentle. One of those big palms swept over curling dark hair. The other reached for his throat to feel for a pulse. “Hey, it’s okay. Aidan, it’s okay; I’m here.”

_I’m here_ , Carver said, as soothing as any mother. But Aidan was not. Aidan was somewhere very, very far away.

“Aidan? What happened? _Aidan_.” He lifted the supine body against his, hunching a little over him protectively, as if he could shield Aidan with his own big frame. Trouble sat inches away, whining brokenly in his throat. Around them, the frost was melting into forgotten puddles, soaking into Carver’s leathers; drip-drip-dripping through cracks in the floorboards. “Come on, talk to me. Where are you hurt? _Aidan_.”

Anders closed his eyes even as he moved to join Carver, dropping into an unsteady crouch by his side. He reached out, closing his palm over Aidan’s staring eyes; he could feel the points of his lashes tickling his palm, but even when he used his powers to reach the pure essence of what made Aidan _Aidan_ —when he tapped into Justice to dig as deep as he could go—he. Felt. Nothing.

It wasn’t like the Tranquil. That always felt like seeing a familiar shape behind a distorted pane of glass. That was _something_ , at least; this was _nothing_. As if Aidan had reached into himself and scooped out his own insides.

“ _Anders_.”

His head snapped up, eyes opening to meet Carver’s. He’d never seen him look so afraid. “Can you heal him?”

_I don’t know_ , he thought, and the mere idea that he wouldn’t be able to bring this man back to them made something shatter in his chest. Aidan; Maker, _Aidan_. He should never have left his side. He should never have let—

Have let _that elf_ touch him.

“Anders!”

“I’ll try,” Anders said, voice rough. There was movement at the doorway, and Leandra’s cry breaking over the pitiful noises Trouble made, but Anders was already tuning it out. He reached for Aidan, following him down as Carver very, very carefully laid him across the damp floorboards; power flickered inside him and he pressed their foreheads together, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to _heal_.

It was like pouring water into a broken glass; Anders could feel the way the mana spilled through Aidan and out again, refusing to catch hold.

_No_ , he thought, grip tightening, jaw clenching. His lashes were wet; when had he started to cry? _No, Aidan, no, no. You don’t get to leave us. You don’t get to— Stay, stay. Please, oh Maker please, be okay._ He pushed, using Justice to take him deep, deeper, as deep as he could go, until everything narrowed down into the echoing stillness in Aidan’s head…and, finally, the broken base where a bond used to be.

“ _Fenris_ ,” Anders snarled, recoiling from the jagged hurt there—then practically tumbling toward it, racing to cauterize the wound before Aidan bled out into the Fade, chumming the water for any demons who cared to listen…

…and was, perhaps, lost to them forever.


	40. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Look, this is angsty. So, so angsty. And there's a glancing reference to the original lyrium ritual and the feel of knives on the skin. If that is likely to trigger you, I suggest skipping this one.

He barely made it three steps into the hushed dark of Hightown before he was turning back. Heart in his throat and some kind of madness in his blood.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Fenris muttered, staring at the big door. It was heavy, imposing, its stoop neatly kept—nothing at all like the cracked wood and cobwebbed stone that was his current home. And maybe _that_ was what stopped him from rushing back inside at the first tug of regret—that visceral, visible reminder of the differences that separated them. Maybe it was something else entirely.

Maybe it was simply _cowardice._

He turned away, cursing and pacing from the inescapable shadow of the Amell estate before stopping again. Stilling. Turning back.

It was late in the evening—or was it early morning? He was too unsettled to tell—and most of the Hightown mansions were dark. _This_ mansion was dark, cold, uninviting in spite of its tidy appearance…other than a single window high on the second floor.

Other than Aidan’s window.

And that— _that_ —that had to be a metaphor. Because no matter what he did or who he proved to be deep in the darkest part of him…no matter _all that_ , not even Fenris could escape the inalienable _fact_ that Aidan Hawke was there. Waiting. Hoping. Endlessly forgiving.

Even when Fenris knew he was doing the unforgivable.

“Go back,” he whispered to himself. His voice sounded too loud in this witching hour—too rough, too raw, too desperate. “You can still go back.”

That golden light shining from Aidan’s window could have just as easily been the soft brilliance of holy Andraste. It made him feel the same deep longing, the same pitiful hope.

_You can still go back._

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That’s what made this so untenable. As frightened as he was of this thing that lay between them, as painful as those flashes of memory had been, while the bond—or the hope of a bond—remained, Fenris would be ever-tempted to throw himself on Aidan’s mercy and damn the consequences.

He needed— He just— He should—

No. He couldn’t do this. It was pulling the asp to your breast and trusting it would not bite. No matter how loving and kind and _good_ Aidan Hawke was, the magic that now bound them would forever haunt Fenris with terrible ghosts from his past—and no matter how much he tried to deny it, he wasn’t brave enough to face them. Not even with Aidan at his side.

Maybe especially not with Aidan, knowing Aidan could look into his heart at any moment and feel the desperate, damning ocean of fear and hope and love churning there.

“I am sorry,” Fenris said quietly, staring up at the window. He couldn’t feel Aidan through the bond, though he was dimly aware of him. It was as if Aidan had pulled a curtain between them so all Fenris could sense was the silhouette of his shape. That was a mercy. He could only imagine the pain Aidan was feeling now.

The pain he had caused.

 _I am sorry_ , he thought again, wrapping his arms around his middle. His heart was beating triple-time in his chest. He wondered how Aidan would end this bond he’d so foolishly agreed to. He realized that soon there wouldn’t even be that faint silhouette and he would be alone in his head again, this time forever. He thought he might be ill.

 _We both know I was never good enough for you anyway_.

And that, in the end, was as much bitter truth as he could handle for one evening.

Feet dragging, body heavy, Fenris forced himself to turn away from that single burning light. He walked blindly through Hightown to the place he called home, half hoping one of the gangs that haunted this corner of the city took a shot him. He needed a fight to feel himself again. Or maybe he just needed _someone_ to fight him over something, anything—Maker knew Aidan never would.

Nothing jumped out of the shadows, however, and he made his way up to his cracked stoop and into his ruined mansion unaccosted. The farther he got, the dimmer that faint awareness of Aidan seemed to grow. Was it distance, or was Aidan even now bearing down against it? Was he doing everything he could to shield Fenris, to give him his privacy?

Was he already now breaking it apart and setting Fenris free?

 _Don’t_ , Fenris thought, suddenly whirling and slamming his fist against the wall. Plaster and bits of stone rained down, scattering across the cheerful rag rug Leandra had given him—woven herself out of all that scrap fabric Aidan was so obsessed with collecting, and what was _wrong_ with him that he couldn’t force his mind to clear? To not think of Aidan fucking Hawke for one bloody _second_?

Fenris curled his upper lip as he grabbed blindly at one of the bottles lining the kitchen pantry and stumbled into the great, echoing hall. The roof had been patched ages ago, the bodies carted away, but blue-white starlight still pushed through high, slitted windows, streaming across the floor and the fitful flicker of his markings. They lit like distant lightning just waiting for the first crack of thunder. Fenris bore down against the storm of emotion riding high and dangerous in his chest…and his markings went dark again.

He sucked in panting, uneven breaths, mentally straining for that distant awareness of Aidan. He wanted… He needed… A Voice. Wasn’t that what Aidan called him? His _Voice_. Was Aidan his own voice? A whisper in his blood.

But the huge room was quiet. Far, far too quiet. That should have been what he wanted, and yet…

“Stop,” he growled, staring straight ahead. Forcing himself to think of nothing. Not Aidan, not bonds, not magic bubbling up in his blood. “Do not do this to yourself, _fool_. You will go upstairs and drink yourself to sleep.”

Funny how he could so easily mimic Danarius’s inflections when he had to. Yet it worked. With that order finally settling his stomach—and how he hated that after all this time, there was sometimes still a part of him that _needed_ a harsh command to see him through his most difficult moments—Fenris moved up the sweeping stairs to his dark room. This was the only place he had not allowed Leandra to touch. As a result, it was blessedly dark, burrow-like. There was a sour scent that could only be spilled wine, but blended with the ashes of the fireplace, it wasn’t so bad. More than that, it felt…familiar.

Right now, he needed familiar.

Fenris sank into his usual chair, ignoring the cold embers and soot in the fireplace. The weight of the wine bottle was comforting in his hand, and his fingers only shook a little as he pulled free the cork and threw it aside. The wine was bitter on his tongue, though he knew it was supposed to be sweet. He closed his eyes against that bitterness and drank anyway—deep, desperate pulls, as if he could somehow drown the memory of Aidan’s kiss.

Void take him. _Stop_ , Fenris told himself, coughing against a mouthful of wine. He lifted a hand to his lips, eyes still squeezed shut. _Stop this. Stop this now_.

But there was no getting Aidan out of his thoughts. Out of his _head_. And that was the core of his problem, wasn’t it? In the end, that’s what was driving him—the idea that someone was sharing his head with him, that someone was able to…to… _root around_ and dig up memories Fenris couldn’t unearth on his own. That his days would be filled with him, and his dreams would be filled with him, and if he let himself relax into it, he would be so. Fucking. _Happy_.

Happy to be chained like a dog. (To be honored, respected.)

Happy to be controlled and used. (To be given equal weight in their relationship. To have a say in his own life.)

Happy to be… To be _subsumed_. An _unum vinctum_ at last, little more than some mage’s lapdop. (To be finally, at last, loved.)

Fenris tightened his fist against the barrage of conflicting emotion and took another, deeper, pull of the wine. It went down easier now, the bitterness anticipated. Embraced. He needed it to offset the emotion curdling in his chest, just like he needed the dulling effects of the alcohol to distract him from the impulse to feel about in his own head for Aidan.

 _Are you still there?_ he wondered. Or had Aidan already found a way to end this? He hadn’t thought to ask if it was possible. He had no context. An _unum vinctum_ never left its magister. It wouldn’t have the spine to try.

At least he still had enough of himself to walk away. That was good, right? That was… This… It was all… It was _good_. It was _good_. It was _good_.

He just had to keep telling himself that, over and over, as he waited for confirmation that the bond had been broken. As he _drank_ , drowning himself in a Tevinter vintage, chest heaving with the struggle not to go stumbling out of his chair and back to the Amell estate with his tail between his legs. The good, faithful dog, there to lick his mage master’s boots, wanting nothing more than to—

To—

To give himself over to this. To accept his own happily ever after. Like those fools in fairy stories, only real and lasting and _true_.

“Bah,” he snarled, throwing back his head and drinking deep. He staggered up, chair clattering onto its back legs before falling forward again, and moved to the window. It was so dark out he could see nothing but stars framing the peaked roofs of Hightown. It should have been a beautiful sight.

Fenris turned restlessly away, pacing to the fireplace. Back to the window. The room—his sanctuary—had never felt more like a cage. He reached up to tug at the neck of his armor, struggling to draw in breath, feeling _crushed_ by some heavy weight. Aidan’s feelings or his own? Did it matter?

“ _Kaffas_.” He rubbed angrily at his arm, hyperaware of the prickle of lyrium as his markings kept trying to charge, and took another deep swallow of wine. Another, another, because void take him he wanted to be so drunk when it finally happened that Aidan left his thoughts like a thief in the night. He was so bloody tempted to call out—as if Aidan could _hear_ him—and beg him to stop. To let Fenris have this.

But Aidan wasn’t the one standing in his way. Aidan wasn’t the one who… He was just… If Fenris would _only_ …

“ _Bah!”_ he snarled again, so twisted up inside all he could do was bare his teeth like an animal. He hit the wall with a satisfying _smack_ , knuckles stinging before everything went numb again. The alcohol. Fuck, he was drunk. But that was good. He needed that, needed it like a crutch, needed it like a _lung_ sucking in oxygen because he’d go mad if he couldn’t find a way to dull the storm of emotion inside his breast. He was so close to Aidan and yet much, much too far, and he _had_ to be trying to pry apart this bond. That _had_ to be that creeping, dreadful feeling—like Fenris was coming out of his own skin, like he was standing frozen as an iron fist came swinging toward his face. He wanted to move, wanted to duck aside, wanted to cry out and _beg_ , but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_.

One hand covering his eyes against flickering blue-white light, shoulders hunched forward in shame, Fenris stumbled his way blindly toward the chair, sinking back into it like the fucking coward he was, hating himself, hating Aidan, hating all mages, hating soul bounds and _unum vinctum_ and Voices and Danarius and—

And _chains_. Always, always there were chains, even if some were clipped about your throat with words like _love_. He reached up to rub at his throat, as if he could feel the weight of cold iron there. Was this the price of a mage’s love? Was this his new life?

 _Fasta vass_.

If he left Kirkwall, would he still feel this inescapable draw to Aidan? Or would he finally, finally at last be completely free? Free of magic and its corrupting touch, free of demands he couldn’t meet, free of this drive to prove himself, free of— Of—

 _Pain_.

Pain and panic like nothing he had ever felt before. It hit him suddenly, _viciously_ , stealing his breath. Fenris cried out, bolting to his feet. Wine sloshed across his front as he gasped against the blinding aching _agony_ of it—his and yet not, shared like an open wound across the bond. “Aidan!” he shouted, because what else could it be? Who else could make him feel like this—feel anything at all—but the mage with the kind grey eyes and the spine like pure dragonbone?

And yet Aidan was afraid, Aidan was a blare of horrified denial in his mind, and all at once Fenris knew he couldn’t allow the man he loved to go through with this. Maker, he had been a fool to ask it—a fool, a coward, a slave to his own fear, and if he did not hurry, who knew what further damage he would do the man he loved more than reason itself.

Frightened for Aidan, Fenris stumbled toward the door, but the room took a sudden wild dip, spinning madly. He grabbed for the back of his chair, grunting against the queasy blur. His other hand still gripped about the neck of the mostly-empty bottle, trembling—no, no, he couldn’t be too late—and then cried out at another, sudden _shockwave_ of pain. It came from deep inside his breast, radiating out in a brilliant corona. He staggered to the ground, slamming to his hands and knees—wine bottle shattering around him in a vivid river of red. Fenris sucked in a startled breath against the horror of it all, entire body _shining_ with blue light. The lyrium threaded deep through him was, it was, oh, _Maker_ , fuck, fuck, it was tearing against his skin, it was quivering like a struck bell as _whatever_ he felt coming from Aidan magnified a thousandfold within him.

Like a magnet, deep in his core.

He tried to push himself up, lost in a full-body scream. It was as if someone were carving grooves into his skin all the way down to the bone— _deeper_ , digging gouges in his soul—and his arms gave out the moment he began to retch. Bile and thick wine spattered across the flagstones, but he was writhing, too blind to do more than turn his face away.

The dark room was as bright as day, and it felt as if someone had cracked open his chest—as if his guts, his heart, were being scooped out and thrown aside—as if the lyrium had finally found a way to arrow deep into his body to poison his heart, and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he had to get to, he, Aidan, _Aidan_ , Aidan needed him, he, he needed…

It went on and on for what could have been hours, seconds, a lifetime. His throat was _raw_ , his body arched into a helpless bow as the whole world narrowed down into an inescapable pinpoint of _pain_. And at its end—rushing toward him like the conclusion of a great fall—was…

 _Nothing_.

Absolutely nothing at all.

“ _Aidan_ ,” Fenris rasped, eyes squeezing shut against the horror and regret nearly as strong as the pain. And then he sucked in a breath, ready for the final shock of the Voice bond breaking off inside him—

—and, blessedly, was lost in darkness as his body finally succumbed to the chilling silence waiting on the edges of that pain. Fenris passed out.

The room at last went dark.


	41. Carver

_Fenris_.

Anders had said the name with a snarl, upper lip pulled back to reveal the flash of his teeth. It was a shock to Carver’s system, even though…realistically…he supposed it shouldn’t have been. Who else had the power to hurt Aidan like this? Who else could reach into their lives and _squeeze_ his brother’s heart until there was nothing, _nothing_ left?

Years ago, Fenris had found Aidan in the Fade and nearly killed him. Now, standing and watching helplessly as Anders fought to save Aidan’s life, Carver couldn’t help but be pulled back to that terrible night he’d never been able to forget. The screams dragging him awake. Bethany, trembling fit to fall apart in his arms. His mother’s shocked-pale face and his father bent over Aidan’s writhing form, blood soaking the mattress, drip-drip-dripping to the floor, streaking across Aidan’s pale, contorted features…

 _Maker_. He’d never felt so helpless, so powerless, as he had that night, watching the scrolling cuts open themselves across Aidan’s flesh over and over again despite their father’s desperate attempt to _heal_. And now, here…

Fuck. Standing here, watching this all unspool again in a shocky, horrifyingly silent mirror of the worst night of his life, Carver couldn’t help but feel that overwhelming sense that he was just a boy of ten again, holding on to his sister because that’s all he knew to do. Struggling to think beyond _oh Maker, what has magic done to him?_ And _please, please, please don’t die. I couldn’t bear it if you died._

“ _Oh_ ,” his mother sobbed from just behind him. Anders turned his head slightly at the sound, but his eyes were glowing blue; he was lost somewhere deep inside Aidan.

Carver swallowed against the rising fear, the bitterness. No matter what he did, he always seemed to end up in the exact same place—watching helplessly as someone he loved held his brother’s life in his hands, knowing that no matter how hard he trained, how ruthlessly he pushed himself, how brutally he treated his own body in a desperate bid to be the strongest, fastest, most _powerful_ …in the end, he would always, _always_ be standing uselessly by, hating himself for not having the strength he needed to do anything at all.

“ _Oh_. Oh, _Aidan_ ,” Mother said, voice muffled by a hand. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her. What kind of a son was he that he couldn’t bring himself to look? “Oh _Aidan,_ baby.”

“Leandra, it’s— It will be all right. Anders will fix this. You’ll see!” Merrill. They were all awake now, all ringed like graveyard statues in Aidan’s room, watching as Anders flickered with blue-white light. Carver wondered if they felt as bitterly impotent as he did. He wondered if they hated themselves just as much.

But no. No, that would be impossible. Because Merrill and Mother could be angry with themselves for the feeling of helpless frustration blooming insidiously dark in their bellies, but they’d never quite feel like _this_. Feel…feel fucking _jealous_ as Anders cupped Aidan’s face and brought their foreheads together. As long-fingered hands stroked up into curly dark hair. As his lips formed Aidan’s name over and over again before brushing so-so-so lightly across his temples in a damningly earnest kiss.

Loving. Could it be anything else, with Aidan? _Everyone_ loved Aidan. Everyone always had. Was it truly a surprise that the man Carver…felt something for…loved Aidan too?

Knowing that, watching that, Carver struggled against a wall of black rage, of _of-fucking-course_ , of petty jealousy and resentment and the familiar, curdling despair of always being the third-best Hawke. He felt an urge to smash his fist into something, to scream, to grab Anders and pull him away from Aidan before he could lose this, too. Before he could go back to being _the other Hawke_ to this, this man, this wonderful man he wanted, he wanted so badly he—

Maker. _Maker_. How he hated himself for hating Aidan right now. No wonder he couldn’t bring himself to turn and comfort his own mother. He was too gripped with the certainty that she would look at his face and _know_ at long last just how terrible her least favorite child could be.

 _I’m sorry_ , Carver thought, watching Anders’ glowing hands span Aidan’s chest with heart-breaking gentleness. _I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from this. I’m sorry I’m fucking standing here hating you just as much as I love you—as if I ever really had a chance with him anyway_.

Anders had said it himself once upon a time, hadn’t it? Or at least close enough that Carver’d never been able to get it out of his head. It haunted him at night, when he lay on his narrow cot and stared up at the Circle’s ceiling. It threaded through his thoughts when he trailed after his brother and his menagerie of friends, at once a part of them and leagues away. _Aidan’s too important to_ risk, Anders had all but said. _But you’re not_.

Yeah, well, what else was new?

Carver watched as Anders leaned forward, lank blond hair falling messily about his handsome (so, so stupidly, obnoxiously, wonderfully handsome) face and brushed a kiss between Aidan’s unresponsive brows…then across his own parted lips. The gesture was so tender, so full of pain, that Carver felt his heart clench in response. He turned his face away, eyes burning with tears, though he’d be damned if he could articulate which loss grieved him more in this moment.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t have time for something as self-indulgent as grief. There was work to be done.

Carver always, always felt better when there was _work to be done_.

He turned, one hand falling to Trouble’s head. The mabari made a low whining noise, tilting his muzzle but not taking his eyes away from Aidan. He wouldn’t, Carver knew, until Aidan either woke or…or died. That’s how loyal a mabari was. How steadfast. He brushed his hand down the proud slope of his skull, thinking, _protect them for me_ with an aching sort of regret…before forcing himself to lift his gaze to his mother’s face.

He had to lock his knees against the sight.

She’d aged ten years since he’d seen her last, suddenly so very _old_ it was like a punch in the chest. She was listing against Merrill’s slight form, her face a map of anguished wrinkles, her hair—he remembered the way she used to let Bethany brush it, laughing as Father leaned in to tuck wildflowers behind her ears—falling in brittle grey waves about her.

When she lifted her hand to cover her mouth, it _trembled_. All of her, _all of her_ , was shaking almost violently, her eyes filmy with tears.

 _Oh Maker, Mother_ , Carver thought, stomach clenching tight in response. _I am so, so sorry_.

He moved to her, reaching out to brush back a fall of grey hair, but she jerked reflexively away from him. It was sudden, instinctive, a flinch she couldn’t possibly have been expected to control—and that, _that_ on top of everything else was almost enough to stagger him at last. When her gaze jerked up to meet his, startled and _sorry_ , Carver felt another piece of himself unmoor, drift away.

 _I know,_ he thought, dropping his hand before she could grab for it in some deliberate show of maternal warmth. _I would have wanted it to be me too._

That had to be what she was thinking, right? That if the Maker was cruel enough to take one of her sons, he might as well take the one who never quite fit in, who never quite _belonged_ no matter where he went. Who could never seem to find the knack of saying the right thing, of making people like him the way they so desperately loved Aidan.

“Carver,” Mother said, reaching for him. He let her touch the hard line of his jaw, refusing to let his own reflexive pain show. It wasn’t her fault she felt that way; everyone did. “Baby, oh my _baby_. What’s _happening_?”

“It’s Fenris,” Carver said, catching her wrist. He gently pulled her hand down. “It’s always Fenris, isn’t it?”

Behind them, Anders made a noise that barely sounded human. He had to be reaching the end of his mana—not even Justice could keep him going too far past what his body was created to withstand. Carver glanced over, fighting the impulse to go to him and… And pull him into the shell of his body, _protect_ him.

 _Protect him the way you protected Aidan_?

Fuck, he hated his inner voice. He tightened his jaw and carefully pulled back from his mother. “Anders has a few lyrium draughts in his pouch,” he said, “but he’ll run out soon. Make him drink what he has now; I’m going to get more.”

“Carver—”

He turned to Merrill. “Make sure she does it,” he said, then forced himself to bypass his weeping mother—old and frail and crumpling in on herself like a wheat stalk when the grain has grown too heavy—to slip out the broken door. Carver glanced over his shoulder once, lingering on Aidan’s unresponsive body, on Anders’ hunched form, before making his way down the hall, the steps, the great room…tracing his way back the way he’d come.

His stomach twisted into hard shapes as he passed through the doorway and took the steps one at a time. He and Anders had been down here just minutes ago. Laughing. _Kissing_. Cleaving together like it all meant something. Or had he dreamed that up? Fuck if he knew.

“Maker,” Carver growled, dragging a palm over his eyes. He hurried through the basement in an attempt to sidestep the memories reaching like ghosts to dig their nails into his skin. There was no point thinking about it. It had happened, it was over, and he didn’t need to call to mind the way Anders was even now tenderly cupping Aidan’s jaw to know it would never, _never_ happen again.

He just— He needed to accept that. He needed to focus.

Carver shoved out through the hidden doorway, slamming it behind him. The little bundle of rags across the way jerked in surprise, but he ignored the waif, stalking toward the entrance to Anders’ clinic. Aidan kept only the barest supplies in store, preferring to give every draught of lyrium or elfroot to Anders and his endless parade of needy refugees. It had been a fight between them, before, Carver facing off against Aidan in an epic yelling match…two? Three years ago? More?

 _“They need these supplies, Carver_ ,” Aidan had said, getting up into his face. It had galled Carver, back before his latest growth spurt, that Aidan had been _taller_. He remembered fighting the urge to kick him in the knee and force him down a few pegs, just out of trembling spite. _“They’ll die without them.”_

 _“And what about us?”_ Carver had demanded. They’d been fresh out of indentured servitude, literally brawling in the streets for scraps. It had been maddening to see Aidan take what could have been a meal for the entire family—elfroot was _expensive_ when you had next to nothing, and lyrium even more so—and just give it away to appease his bleeding heart. _“What’ll happen to us?”_

Aidan had softened at that, which had only made Carver angrier. He was _always_ doing that, always being the better person. Nothing made Carver want to punch his brother more than when Aidan went all bloody _empathetic_.

Empathy, kindness, charity—they were all well and good. But they didn’t feed Mother and they didn’t keep Aidan out of the Circle and they didn’t fucking save Bethany or Father, now did they? As far as he could figure back then, the rest of the world could hang; all that mattered was the bit of family he had left.

“ _We’ll find our way, Carver,”_ Aidan had promised. Aidan was always saying things like that. Aidan had so much faith it was maddening. _“You and me, together. You’ll see_.”

And they had, Carver supposed. Or, at least, Aidan had. He’d found a bloody fortune and given Mother her _home_ and _dignity_ back…but it hadn’t been with Carver at his side. No, instead, there had been Fenris.

 _Fenris_.

“Fucking,” Carver muttered, struggling with the clinic’s lock. His eyes were bleary with hot tears, and he angrily dashed at them, hating himself for breaking down like this when there was _work to do_. He’d always, always been the one who’d been able to soldier on—what was it about _this_ that kept threatening to break him apart? “Fucking _Fenris_. Damn it!” He slammed his fist against the door as hard as he could, reveling in the fresh burst of pain.

The old door cracked beneath the blow. He stared at the fissure—like veins of lyrium, like heartsblood—and sucked in a deep breath. His fist ached; he wanted more. No, no, he _needed_ more. Gritting his teeth, Carver swung his fist again, again, lost in the feel of breaking skin over knuckles, of splintered wood giving way, of something so pure and so physical and so completely under his control.

 _Bam_.

_Bam._

_Bam._

He whaled against the clinic door, suddenly desperate to tear it down the way he’d ripped his way into Aidan’s room…but it stood against him, _mocking_ , swimming in and out of his vision as he cried like the stupid _kid_ he was. “Fucking _damn it_!” Carver snarled, whaling at the door. “ _Fucking damn it!_ ”

“Can I help?”

Carver whirled at the voice, very nearly swinging his fist. He stopped himself just in time, staring into Merrill’s big doe eyes with a sense of shocked relief mixed with further self-recrimination. He’d nearly _punched_ Merrill; void take him, he really was worthless, wasn’t he? “Merrill,” Carver said, dropping his fist. Blood dripped from the knuckles, spilling across the filthy Darktown floor. How much blood had been spilled here before? Didn’t matter. None of this _mattered_. “What are you doing here? Mother is—”

“Leandra is _fine_ ,” Merrill assured him, catching Carver’s arm before he could brush past her. She dug in her heels, holding on tight. He might have been able to push his way past, but he would have had to drag her all the way—that was clear enough. “She’s pulled herself together and is helping Anders help Aidan. She’s very strong, you know.”

He didn’t, wouldn’t, picture Mother crumpling to the ground when Father died. He didn’t, wouldn’t, think of all those long months, years, when she had done nothing but stare, when Aidan had been shocked into a similar silence, when Bethany had retreated into herself and _he’d_ been the only one left fit enough to keep the family going. Alone. In the crushing stillness.

So, so many days of painful silence.

It wouldn’t be kind to think of that, and fuck knew he at least _tried_ to be kind to his own family when he could.

“Carver.”

“Of course,” he said, route. “Sure, of course. She’s a regular battlemaiden. What are you doing down here?”

Merrill tipped up her face, scanning his. She was close enough he could feel the heat cast by her slight body. He remembered a time when that would have set his heart to racing. Not anymore. Somewhere along the way, Anders had completely taken over his thoughts, the—the bloody beat of his heart, and what was he even doing? There was no time for this. He was wasting time, and it would be on his shoulders when he finally lost them all.

“Oh _Carver_ ,” Merrill sighed, reaching up to touch his face. The way she said his name reminded him suddenly, sharply, of his long-lost twin. “You really are such an idiot.”

He jerked his face away, prying her off with more gentleness than he wanted. “Yes, _thanks_ ,” he said, turning back to the door. There were cracks running up each side and the lock was bent, blood spattered across splintered wood and hard-packed earth…but it still held. “That is very helpful, Merrill.”

“Well!” she said brightly, stepping next to him and jostling their shoulders together. When he looked at her again, she was holding aloft a familiar key. “I _do_ try to be helpful now and again.”

“Where did you get that?” he asked, even as he realized. No, of course. Anders would have the key in his pouch, next to the bottles of lyrium. He’d been so rattled, he hadn’t even thought to search for it before he fled his (dying?) brother like a coward. “Oh.”

She touched his arm again, very gently, before sliding the key into the lock. Giving it a little twist. “Yes. _Oh_. He’s going to be all right, you know.”

Carver pushed the now-unlocked doors wide, hurrying into the dim clinic. He didn’t need light to know his way; he was down here with Anders more nights than he cared to remember. Mooning like a love-sick fool and plotting bloody revolution against the Order he’d sworn his life to. Working out high and low tides, making plans, saving as many mages as they could and… And just… Just…

He crouched by the hidden copse of supplies, jimmying it open. There was a trick to it. Not many knew. His fingers easily found their way, chased by memory and regret.

“Carver,” Merrill said, quietly, from the doorway.

“Why?” he demanded, pulling open the hidden latch and sliding the drawer open. “Because you said so?”

She made a low noise and…and all right, fine, he felt like an asshole. So what was new? He focused on his task, _needing_ to see it through.

There were dozens of bottles of lyrium, elfroot, tonics and potions and various concoctions. Surely more than Anders would ever need, even if Aidan _was_ bleeding out again. Even if somehow Fenris had repeated whatever he had before and carved Aidan from the inside out. Maker, what new scars would Aidan have now, if he survived this? What kind of fresh torment would having a Voice bring on the Hawke family?

Soulmates. He _hated_ the thought. What good ever came out of loving someone so much you forgot yourself inside them? What did finding the “lost” piece of yourself mean but the chilling idea that you were never whole to begin with?

And what about people like him? What about people who weren’t Voices? _Am I just am empty vessel that no one deemed important enough to fill?_ All his life, he’d thought he wanted to be magic, to be a Voice: he knew better now.

He filled his arms with delicate bottles and lurched to his feet, knocking against the cabinet. His breath was coming harsh and too-fast in his chest, and there was something deep inside him that felt dangerously like an unhinged scream. _For fuck’s sake, Carver Hawke, they need you to keep it together._

Merrill hadn’t given up on him in disgust, he noticed as he moved back toward the door. In fact, she was holding it open for him, ready to lock up behind him—quietly giving him whatever he needed in that way she had.

Carver paused just outside the clinic doors, arms full of potions, heart full of something a lot darker. He drew in deep, shuddery breaths as she closed up without a word. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed.

“I know,” Merrill said, clicking the lock into place. She moved to stand at his side, taking the overflowing bottles of lyrium before they could unbalance. “But it _is_ going to be all right, you know. I’ve…seen something like this before.”

 _That_ nearly had him jerk back in response—to grab at her as if he could shake the answers he needed free. But, fuck, no, he needed to be careful; he needed to _focus_. “What,” Carver began, but words, _words_ , kept catching in his throat. “How,” he tried again, needing to know, needing to ask—

_How did they survive this?_

She just tipped against him, arm brushing his warmly. “Anders is doing the right thing,” she said. “And when he is done, the rest of us will continue to do the right thing, and we will get through this, and he will survive. And someday, he will…recover.”

“Do you promise?” he asked, like a child, forcing himself to ignore that slight hesitation before the word _recover_.

Merrill’s smile was slow and sad—haunted—but she nodded. “Oh yes,” she said before pulling ahead to lead the way back into the house. “I promise.”

Carver followed, feeling like something terrible had been lifted from him. Aidan was going to survive. Even more, Aidan would _recover_. It would be like before, like the bloody night he’d received those markings: he’d been hurt, badly hurt, but just like then he would find his way back to them again and eventually everything would _be all right_.

Until, of course, he opened himself up to Fenris once more. Until, of course, something like this happened again. And again. And again. Until there was nothing left of Aidan to recover.

 _I have to kill him_ , Carver thought, returning like a ghost into the echoingly quiet hall of the Amell estate. There were no noises coming from upstairs—no muffled crying, no crackle of power, no mournful howls. He refused to take that as a bad sign, clinging to what Merrill had said as if that somehow had the power to make it come true. _I have to kill Fenris if I want to see my brother survive him._

And, on the heels of that: _I have to do it now, while I’m still angry enough not to regret it._

“Merrill,” Carver said, pausing by his brother’s writing desk to carefully set down his armful. She swung around to look at him, brows arched in question. “Could you take these up to Anders? I have to—return to the Gallows. They’ll be missing me.”

He could taste the lie on his tongue, but Merrill just offered him the saddest shadow of a smile before filling her arms and slipping upstairs. He watched her go, then just stared up at Aidan’s busted door for what felt like an eternity, feeling… He didn’t know what he was feeling anymore. The rage was slipping away more and more with each second that passed, flowing through him like water through a sieve. He wanted to hold onto it, wanted the sense of purpose it gave him, but it was as if something vital in _him_ had been broken, too.

As if he, like Aidan, had reached inside himself and pulled out his still-beating heart.

“Damn it,” Carver murmured, eyes burning though he didn’t cry. Not anymore. He hadn’t really cried the first time this had happened either. He wondered if that meant he was broken or strong. “Damn it, Aidan. _Damn_ it.”

Carver squeezed his eyes shut, then pulled in a long, unsteady breath. Held it. Let it out. If he let himself think about it, he didn’t truly _want_ to kill Fenris. Fenris was as blind and fumbling as Aidan. He was as…lost, maybe, within the wider maze that was this whole soulbond thing. A _victim_ of it, like the rest of his family. Love, it seemed, was the real enemy here. That all-consuming, blinding, crippling devotion that stripped away logic and sense and _self_.

Love. Soulmates. _Voices_.

And he couldn’t bloody well take a sword to that, now could he?

“No, stop it,” he told himself, turning away from his silent vigil and going to the chest Aidan kept tucked in the corner, full of various weapons they’d used and discarded. He was confusing himself—he was losing his sense of purpose already. Fenris may have been just a cog in this greater machine, but _he_ was the reason Carver had almost lost Aidan twice now. At the very least, he had to reckon with that. He had to _pay_ somehow.

He grabbed the first two-handed sword he could find, hefting it easily, grateful for the familiar burn of his muscles. It felt wrong in his hands after the first swing, however—weighted too heavily at the tip, lacking the precise balance of his Templar blade. Uneven, as if it, too, was uncertain of this path they were taking.

 _Bah_. He tossed it aside, gritting his teeth against the loud clamor, and continued sorting through the pile. There were so many useless odds and ends that it was nearly impossible to make heads or tails of it all. If Aidan… _when_ Aidan recovered, they should take a day to weed out the discards and make some sense out of the rest. It would be hard work, but together—

He closed his eyes, lashes wet again. _Damn it_.

“Are you looking for this?”

Carver jerked up at his mother’s voice, startled. She was standing halfway down the steps, his Templar sword in hand. She looked incredibly pale— _frail_ —as if the next breeze might make her crumple. “Mother,” he began, straightening.

She moved down the remaining steps, shaky, and Carver immediately moved to help her. Her hair fell in grey snowdrifts about her thin shoulders and her features appeared sunken. Hollow. Her fingers shook when she pushed the sword into his hands, refusing his help. “ _Mother_ , you should sit. You should—Merrill,” he suddenly added, propping his sword blindly in a corner before wrapping an arm around her thin waist. “Did Merrill tell you she’d seen something like this before? Aidan’s going to recover, Mother. He’ll be okay.”

“Merrill is very kind to say that,” his mother murmured. She dropped a cold hand over Carver’s, clasping gently. “And you are a very kind brother to defend Aidan like you do. He needs you.”

“Mother,” Carver began.

Her grip tightened. “He _needs you_ , Carver. He needs you to watch over him now more than ever. Go. Go to him.”

He didn’t glance toward his sword, toward the door. He didn’t have to. “I will,” he promised. As if there was ever any question. Carver had been born to fret over his family the way they seemed to have been born to be tormented by magic. “Soon. But first I need to—”

“No.” She pulled away, only swaying a little. There were teartracks down her face, but her eyes were steady. “No, you go to him now. I’ll take care of Fenris.”

 _That won’t be enough_ , he thought with a strange feeling of mingled relief and frustration. Mother would coax and coddle Aidan’s Voice. She’d convince him to come home and try to heal him too, until he was woven back into the broken mess he’d made of the Hawke’s lives. And then, in a few years, Aidan would be bloody and screaming and _shattered_ again, and it would be all because of this. This moment where Carver wasn’t strong enough to see his duty through and kill his brother’s Voice. “I don’t think—” Carver began, but his mother just reached out to squeeze his arm, expression set.

“Go upstairs, Carver,” she said—using her _commanding_ voice, the one even he had never been able to disobey. “Watch over your brother. I’ll be back soon.”

He took a hesitant step back, then another. Another. His sword was left propped in its corner, catching the red firelight. Like a symbol of the bloody future it had been denied. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Carver said, watching as she gathered a few bottles of elfroot Merrill hadn’t been able to carry. For _Fenris_.

Mother just shook her head, even as she moved toward the door. “It has to be this way,” she said. “He would never forgive you for hurting his Voice.” Then she paused, staring straight ahead—shoulders back as if she were going into battle. “But I’m his mother,” Leandra Hawke said. “He has no choice but to forgive _me._ ”

And then she slipped out into the night.


	42. Leandra

The streets were silent.

Leandra walked beneath the dying starlight, moving through darkness like a sleepwalker. The bag of gold she’d scrounged from Aidan’s room clanked against her hip and the bottles of elfroot were surprisingly weighty in her arms. She felt…

She felt so _tired_. So tired, so raw, as if she had been beating herself like a moth against glass, fighting to reach the dying light of her child.

She didn’t look back toward that single glowing light in her girlhood home now, trusting that Aidan would be as safe as he _could_ be under the combined care of Anders, Carver and Merrill. They would watch over him. They would keep him safe the way she knew she never could. It was strange—for a boy who had spent his entire life being swept from this corner of Ferelden to that, Aidan had always shown such incredible ability to make _friends_. No, not just friends—Varric and Isabella and Aveline and, oh, all of them were surely more than that now.

They were family. They _cared_ about him as fiercely as she did. They would fight just as viciously. She’d never seen such a tightly bound ragtag crew, each of them revolving like the planets about the inexplicably warm and glowing sun that was her oldest child. _Charming_ and kind and fatally giving.

Where had he learned that? Not from her. Maker. Not from her. She’d always been so selfish with her love.

“My baby,” she murmured, tears hot on her lashes. But Leandra blinked them away, forcing her chin up. Fenris’s mansion was just a stone’s throw away, dark as the estates flanking it. She paused at the broken stoop and looked up toward his dark window, wondering what she would find inside.

 _I should have brought a knife_.

Breathing through the tendrils of choking rage, Leandra pushed open the unlocked door. The mansion was silent, hallways she’d swept and made hospitable herself (in a brighter, happier time) casting long shadows. Her footsteps echoed against the flagstones in tempo with her heart.

The grand hall had once been beautiful. She remembered coming here a few times as a girl; she’d danced for the first time beneath its great chandelier, laughing and tripping over her skirts as she’d strained her neck up to watch candlelight prism through fancy Orlesian crystal. None of the other Kirkwall homes had been so richly furnished—so _fine_. Watching the beams of colored light flit across the spinning dancers, knowing they kissed her own upturned face, she’d felt so… So…

Well. That had all been before Malcolm, in any case. And now there was a hole where the chandelier had once been, showing nothing but sky.

Leandra swept up the stairway toward Fenris’s room. She didn’t bother trying to be quiet—he would hear her no matter what she did. Besides, she _wanted_ him to know she was coming. She _wanted_ him to…what? Hope? Fear? Something wide and dark and terrible in between?

She wasn’t sure. Even now, as she pushed open the door and stepped into the dank, stinking darkness of his room, she _wasn’t sure_ whether she was here to slit his throat or soothe his brow. This elven slave who had slipped into her laughing son’s dreams and brought nothing but pain—did she hate him? Did she pity him? Did she love him?

The memory of Aidan’s staring, blank eyes was too fresh in her mind for her to know for sure.

“Fenris,” Leandra said, voice carefully flat. The door creaked the rest of the way open, thudding against the far wall as she stepped inside.

She took in the scene slowly, piece by piece. The window with its wide open shutters. The ashes and dead coals in the cold fireplace. Puddles of vomit dark like blood on the floor. Shattered glass and…wine? Yes, wine, pooling around Fenris’s twitching fingertips. The points of his gauntlets dragged against stone, scratching softly. That and the shallow husk of his uneven breath was the only proof that he’d survived whatever it was he had done to her son.

(And she had no doubt that he had caused whatever it was that had happened. She had no room for doubt within the choking tightness of her breast.)

Leandra studied him, sprawled there like a broken toy, for a long, long minute. Then she sighed and set the potions aside, looping up the ends of her skirt to keep them from dragging through the filth. She moved forward, pulling back her hair in hands that no longer trembled, made strong by the renewing certainty of what she had to do.

“Can you hear me, Fenris?” she murmured, rolling him carefully onto his back. He made a low, broken noise, lashes flickering fitfully against his cheeks. Leandra knelt on the stone next to his head, snapping her fingers in front of his lax face; he made another guttural sound and turned his cheek.

He was responsive, at least. He had one up over Aidan.

 _He has everything over Aidan. No_ , she corrected herself, reaching for the first bottle and pulling the cork. _That isn’t true_. Because he’d been born a slave and went through…whatever it was that had left him marked like this. She couldn’t blame him for that.

 _He’s_ held _everything over Aidan_ , Leandra corrected, grabbing Fenris’s chin none-too-gently and forcing his mouth open. She tilted his head, resting it against her knees, and poured the first bottle of elfroot into him _. Not least of all himself_.

Leandra set aside the empty bottle and reached for the next one, uncorking it and lifting it to Fenris’s lips. He made a low noise, then suddenly coughed and sputtered. She caught the side of his face before he could turn away, holding his jaw as she forced him to swallow the viscus liquid. “Drink,” she said. Then, because he was beginning to tense with returning awareness against her: “It’s Leandra, Fenris. I’m not going to hurt you. Now, _drink_.”

His lashes flickered against his cheeks, but he swallowed obediently, taking the second and third bottles without protest. When she reached for the fourth, however, he caught her wrist; the cool prick of his gauntlets made her go very, very still.

They remained frozen like that, in an uncertain tableau, before he let out a long, harsh breath. His eyes opened slowly, huge and black before they began to dilate down as he focused on her face. There were shadows beneath his eyes; his face looked drawn, haunted.

Good.

“Leandra,” Fenris managed, voice strained, as if he’d been gargling glass. Then, brows drawing together: “How is he?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to feel that for yourself?” Leandra said. Her hand was still caught in his grasp, hovering mid-air.

Fenris frowned, eyes dropping. He let her go, free hand pushing against the stone as he tried to propel himself up. He very nearly slipped and came crashing back again, but she caught him against her side, wary of the dark prickle of his armor, and helped him sit up.

“Careful,” Leandra warned. As much as she hated him in this moment, she couldn’t seem to help but worry over him.

He just shook his head, long ends of his white hair falling into his eyes. One leg drew up and the other curled beneath him. His shoulders were rounded forward in defeat. _Broken_. He looked so very, very broken. “I do not,” he began, then stopped, wincing. It was that flicker of pity that had Leandra reaching for the fourth bottle of elfroot and pushing it into his hands. “I do not feel anything,” Fenris managed. His fingers curled around the bottle almost tight enough to crack it. “I did, before. When the bond formed. But now…nothing.”

She sat back with an unsteady breath, eyes closing. So they _had_ completed their bond. And yet…what? It hadn’t taken? Or was it simply that whatever darkness lived inside Fenris had been strong enough to overpower it? Or had he… Had he really…

Fenris answered the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask. “I told him to sever it,” he said, voice clipped. It was harsh, _cold_ , in exact opposition to the lost child look she could just made out in his eyes. “Whatever he did…hurt.”

_No._

_Oh, no_.

There were too many emotions roiling in her breast. Too much hurt and pain and hate and fear and loss; she had experienced just too damn much _loss_. Leandra brought a hand to her mouth, biting hard against the flesh of her palm to keep the wounded animal cries inside. _I told him to sever it_ , Fenris said, as if that were such a simple thing. As if that weren’t paramount to ordering Aidan to slit his own throat.

 _How_ , she thought, fighting against the wild surge of hate-rage-pain. _How, how could you? How could you?_ They had been bonded; Aidan had been safe. For the first time since his magic began to creep like a choking vine inside of him, her baby had been _safe_ from the demons that haunted his dreams. That was the whole point of being a Voice, wasn’t it? Guarding the other half of your heart with every fierce pump of blood through your own.

She would have ripped the world apart if it meant keeping Malcolm safe. She would have stolen Carver’s sword and gone chasing after him into the Wilds if she had only known the real danger he was in. Ever since the moment she looked up and met his eyes across the crowded ballroom, she had been his and he had been _hers_ , and how _dare_ Fenris look into the heart of her son and not see something worth protecting.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

Fenris slowly—anxiously—looked up, finally meeting her eyes. At once, his shoulders jerked forward and he actually _cowered_ back instinctively; she could only imagine what he saw. “I,” he began, but his voice, words, _something_ failed him. The sound broke, gone hollow, and his shoulders curved inward as if he could somehow protect himself from that agonized fury in her eyes.

He didn’t look up at her again. He didn’t try to speak.

Good. _Good_. Maker, that was _good_ , because she was scrabbling hard to keep control of the pain that wanted to come spewing out of her. She could feel it hot like magma in her chest, filling her up and up and up until each breath came in sharp, rapid, staccato bursts.

I told him to sever it.

_I told him to sever it._

_I told him—_

Aidan.

She squeezed her eyes shut against a well of bitterly hot tears. She wore her pain like a ragged banner, and oh, _oh_ , to lose Aidan like _this_. To _this man_ , this cruel, broken, thoughtless man he loved so much for so long…

It was too much. It was eating her from the inside out. The fear that she’d thought she’d managed to bank was clawing its way up her throat again, because no matter how bad she had imagined it was, the truth was a thousand times worse. If Aidan’s mind had been snapped by a bond badly formed, then she would have lost him all the same, but at least… At least he would have gone into the haunted dark knowing he had been _loved_ , not… Not _this_. Not this. Maker, Maker, not _this_.

“Leandra,” Fenris finally rasped, fingertips tentatively brushing her shoulder. “Please. You must tell me. Is he…”

Leandra slapped his hand away _hard_ , curling her lip at the sting of metal against flesh. She glared up through her wet lashes, stomach tightening and heart flaring at the way he flinched back as if she might go for his throat. She shouldn’t have reveled in it—should have reminded herself of what he’d been through, what kind of hellish life he’d had before he’d wormed his way deep into her oldest child’s soul—but Maker knew she had never been the forgiving sort.

 _Malcolm_ was generous. _Bethany_ was sweet. _Aidan_ was kind. She and Carver burned with twin flames, and Andraste save anyone who hurt one of their own.

“Why?” Leandra demanded. When Fenris didn’t respond, she reached out and grasped his chin, jerking his face to meet hers. _Making_ him look. _Making_ him face her. “Why do you have the right to ask?”

“Because I am—” Fenris began, hotly, the markings swirling along his skin going bright. But then the words stuttered to a halt and the lyrium died, banking low and fitful as he let himself fully meet her eyes. He didn’t finish his protest. What could he possibly have to say? _Because I am his Voice_?

No. He’d seen to that already.

Leandra let go of him, curling her hands into fists, nails digging trenches into her palms. If she let herself—if she truly gave the terrified fury in her blood free rein—she’d strike him. Again, again, until her muscles ached and her knuckles split and the wracking sobs had finally clawed their way out of her chest again. Or maybe she’d push back his hair, the way she’d always been tempted to do. Tuck it behind an ear and smile when he looked at her. Even now, here, after what he’d done, she felt that humming thread of maternal longing. She wished she could carve that lingering affection out of herself, the way Aidan had.

 _Maybe_ , a spiteful part of her whispered, _if I become enough of an inconvenience, Fenris will ask that of_ me _too._

She didn’t even care that the thought was beneath her. Petty. Maker knew she could be petty. Right now, she couldn’t see the point in trying to swallow back that acid collecting on her tongue.

So…she didn’t.

“You think that you love him,” Leandra said, breaking the tense silence. “You think that the fact that you feel possessive of him, that you wanted to reach out and claim him, make him yours, means that you understand what love is. You’re wrong, Fenris. That isn’t love. That isn’t what being bonded _is_. You were his Voice, but you turned around and made him your…your _unum vinctum._ ” She stumbled over the word, but something terrible in her flared with triumph at the shocked-pale look on his face. Fenris kept himself so guarded, so _armored_ , but tonight he was as raw as she was, and every. Single. Word. Found its mark. “He gave and gave, and you took and took, and in the end when he’d given literally _everything_ he had, you threw it back into his face. You _hurt_ him. You marked him.

“Oh, not _that_ ,” she added with another angry curl of her lip when Fenris’s eyes dropped to the lines curling across his skin. “Those are the scars that magister gave the both of you. I’m talking about the way you marked him tonight. The way you made him prove his love to you by reaching deep inside and tearing himself apart. You stole my baby from me, Fenris.”

He was curled up now tight, tighter, shoulders hunched and head bowed so low it was almost touching the floorboards. She could see him trembling against the cruel onslaught of her words, and for a moment, Leandra felt that faint touch of pity. Maker, what this boy had lived through. What horrors he’d survived. She closed her eyes again, desperate to hold on to the pure-burning rage, but it was slipping away, drowned by sorrow. She felt…so old. So tired. She remembered sitting by the fire late into the night, sick with worry. She could practically hear the pop of flames, could feel their heat against her skin, could see…

 _Aidan_. Young and bright-eyed, hair a tangle of impossible curls. The blanket trailed behind him as he crept to join her, and the light hit his upturned face when he handed her that perfect cup of “magic” tea.

With that, the last of her fury was gone, and with it, the desire to hurt this man who’d so badly hurt Aidan. Leandra choked back a sob, one hand covering her mouth, needing so desperately to swallow back the wracking tears. If she let them come now, here, she might never stop. She’d spiral down into her own sort of madness, lost forever.

 _Aidan_ , she thought again, and all at once she wanted nothing more than to be home with him. And that, _that_ was what softened her heart against Fenris. Even if her baby boy never woke from the nightmare he’d been plunged into, she would be able to brush back his hair; she would be able to hold his hand.

Fenris would never have that right ever, _ever_ again. Not while she lived.

Slowly, shaking so badly her knees knocked together, Leandra stood. She reached into her pocket for the heavy bag of gold and dropped it at her feet. It hit with a hard _thwump_ not a foot from Fenris’s head; he barely twitched, lost in his grief.

“Leave Kirkwall,” she managed to say. “Use that to buy safe passage and hire as many men to guard you as you can. Protect yourself against that monster who chases you. You owe Aidan a long, _long_ life. I hope you manage to find happiness in it somewhere.”

Then she turned and walked away.

“ _wait_ ”

The word was low, broken, lost. She so easily could have ignored it and kept walking. Instead, Leandra turned in the doorway, looking back at Aidan’s former Voice for the last time. He was curled in on himself in the darkness, broken in a way she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Maybe, in his own way, as damaged as Aidan himself.

“is he…alive”

She stood there what felt like a very, very long time, pity and fury warring in her breast. She had taken this man in; she had tried to treat him like family. She had watched as Aidan beat himself against the all too high walls that guarded his heart, and she had held her tongue and never said a word against him. No. No, like a fool, she had _encouraged_ Aidan to pursue his Voice, thinking Fenris only needed time before those walls came down and he realized the home he had waiting for him.

She’d never forgive herself for that, either.

“No,” Leandra finally said, tears tracking down her cheeks but voice perfectly level. It had never been so easy to lie. “You killed him.”

Then she turned away, refusing to force herself to witness the way he crumpled, and walked stiffly down the winding steps to the waiting dark. A wind blew through the empty Hightown streets as she paused on the stoop, taking in a shuddery breath. It lifted strands of her grey hair, buffeted her skirts about her legs. Leandra wrapped her arms around her middle and traced her way back to the waiting Amell estate, with its single burning light. She could hear murmured voices—Merrill and Carver—through Aidan’s broken door even from the front hall. The main room was heavy with the early morning chill.

 _I should go back_ , she thought, even as she closed and latched the door. _I was cruel_. But cruel as she had been, she wasn’t ashamed. Maybe she had no shame left. Maybe she had no pity. Maybe she was just as empty inside as Aidan. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Leandra let out a long breath, moving toward the steps. Something caught her eye as she passed the writing desk, however, and she glanced over with a frown. Glowing pale white in the dim, each petal so perfect it could have been molded by magic, was…

A lily?

Strange.

She almost drifted over to take a closer look, but a sudden low cry startled her back to attention. “Aidan!” Carver gasped, hope and terror wending like choking vines about the word. “Anders, look!”

Leandra jerked her head up, heart leaping in her throat. _Aidan_. She grabbed the trailing ends of her skirts as she raced up the steps two at a time—Fenris forgotten. Lily forgotten. Everything forgotten.

The room was left cold and empty behind her; outside, the first day of Aidan’s new life dawned.

**END PART THREE**


	43. Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to marthas-adventures-in-the-fade/Cinnamongirl and motherhen-bear/bondedwings for their help getting Varric's voice right. I couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> This is the start of the final volume of Fire, Walk with Me. We're making our way toward that happy ending I promised you guys. In the meantime, if you're a fan of the Voice-verse, check out By Any Other Name. Co-written with Delazeur, it explores Tevinter unum vinctum and the difficulty of being both the Herald of Andraste and a Voice to a Tevinter mage. (And you may catch a glimpse of Trevelyan before he becomes the Herald in an upcoming chapter of Fire Walk with Me!)

_“That’s when the Champion’s story nearly ended. Fenris fled the city without a trace. Anders poured himself—literally—into the Champion every night just to keep him alive. And Leandra… Well, death came for Leandra no matter how Carver fought to save her. It was months before the Champion was himself enough to realize what had happened—but by then, the world had already changed around him.”_

— **Varric Tethras** , from Act III of the Champion of Kirkwall

Somehow Darktown smelled even worse this early in the morning.

Varric stood at the top of the steps and fought the urge to cover his face. It seemed rude, somehow—like those idiots who sailed into the Hanged Man from Hightown, “slumming it” with the locals and laughing out both sides of their mouths. He was hardly _too good_ for anything, and that included rotting sewage, back alley piss, and unwashed bodies.

Still. It was all a little _ripe_ for not quite five in the morning—he had to admit that much.

“Come on, then,” he muttered mostly to himself, picking his way down the creaking steps. Blondie’s clinic was just ahead, lantern shining queasily in the dim. The doors were cracked open in welcome, a few bedraggled-looking men loitering just outside. Varric recognized one of them as a guard he’d hired to watch over things; the man barely even blinked as he approached, seemingly caught up in griping about work and the rising cost of bread. Worth his weight in gold, that one.

Before Varric could get close, the door was pushed wide and a familiar figure stalked out, scowling. Varric hurried his pace. “Ah, Junior!” he called, adding a welcoming smile when Carver’s glare turned his way. “I didn’t figure I’d have the pleasure today.”

“What do you want?” Carver demanded. But, to his credit, he immediately sighed and rubbed at his brow. “Sorry. It’s been a long night.”

Varric shifted to look him over. He was dressed in his old leathers—which probably meant he’d left the Templar gear up in the estate—but there were new tears along a seam and a good deal of mud caking his boots. His hair looked particularly windswept, and the violet shadows beneath his eyes were dark as bruises.

He looked, quite frankly, like boiled nug shit.

As if on cue, Carver swayed where he stood; Varric snagged his elbow, catching him with a muffled _oof._ A couple of the men looked over, but Varric just shifted Bianca showily and veered Carver away from the secret entrance to the Amell estate. With all those curious eyes cast their way, now wasn’t the best time to take the back door. “You look awful, Junior,” Varric said with faux-cheer, loud enough to be overheard. You never knew who was carrying what stories where, nowadays. “Your charges at the Gallows keeping you jumping?”

“My—” Carver began hotly, head jerking up. But he deflated immediately at Varric’s subtly arched brow. That wouldn’t have happened just a few years ago, Varric figured; he had to give the younger Hawke credit for learning a bit of discretion along the way. “Yes,” Carver said, not once glancing back at the men milling about the clinic entrance. Good lad. “You know the life of a Templar: never bloody done.”

His hired man began sputtering some nonsense about _bloody fucking Fereldens_ , creating a perfectly timed diversion. Not enough to try the secret entrance now, perhaps, but at least no one was paying attention as Varric and Carver slipped around to the far steps out of Darktown. “That could be etched onto any of our house crests,” Varric said lightly. He kept a hand on Carver’s elbow, guiding the visibly exhausted man out into the pre-dawn light. “All of Kirkwall, maybe. I was heading down to check on Blondie,” he added in a quieter voice. “It’s been awhile.”

Carver just snorted. “Then you were going the wrong way,” he said. “He’s up in the house. He’s always up in the house.”

That earned an arched brow. “And here I thought the two of you had a…standing date…this time of the month.” His gaze dropped obviously down to Carver’s ruined trousers and muddy boots. “Seems _you_ kept it, at least.”

“Oh, sure,” Carver said. “He’s the one who rants about freedom and I’m the unlucky sod who makes sure it gets done. Merrill volunteered to sit with Aidan last night, but you know how Anders is.”

“Yes,” he said. Frowning. He understood that Anders felt like he _had_ to be near Aidan just in case…well, _just in case_ …but things had been getting steadily better. They were out of crisis mode, at the very least. He thought for sure Anders would have turned his attention back to his not-so-secret mage underground by now.

But to think that Anders had temporarily abandoned direct involvement… That somehow Justice had allowed it… And that _Carver_ was seeing his work through…

Wait. Hold on. Something wasn’t adding up.

“If you’re here,” Varric began slowly, “and he’s up there, then who’s working the clinic? Or are we throwing open a door with a sign painted _please help yourselves_ , ‘cause I have to say, Junior, I’m not confident that’ll work out.”

Carver just snorted, holding open the door into Lowtown. He let it slam behind them, chains rattling ominously as Varric lead the way up the next flight of steps. It was a damn bother taking the long way ‘round, but getting a chance to speak one-on-one with Carver was a rare bonus. Most days, it was impossible holding the kid down for more than a few minutes at a time. Or course, if Carver was actually taking over some of Anders’ duties, on top of Hawke’s, on top of Leandra’s, on top of his own…

Maker, it was a wonder the kid was even up and running anymore. How hadn’t he known things had gotten this bad? He thought he’d been paying _attention._ Hawke would never forgive them if he knew they were letting Carver run himself into the ground. Shit, Varric wouldn’t forgive himself: family was family, and he’d made a tacit promise to look after the Hawke clan. He’d already failed with Leandra; the thought of Hawke waking (because someday, Hawke _would_ wake up) and finding _all_ his loved ones gone…

No. No, fuck, no, that wasn’t happening.

“Isabela took over while Merrill naps in Anders’ old bed and I hie myself back to the Gallows for duty,” Carver was saying, completely missing Varric’s slow unraveling. “Don’t give me that look,” he added. “She volunteered, and our hands are tied. We’re doing the bloody best we can.”

“I wasn’t judging you, Junior.” Varric tugged Carver’s elbow to veer him around a drunk tripping his way home from a night at the Hanged Man. “Just…surprised Rivaini’s up for it, considering all the shit going on with her. Tell you what,” he said as they headed up into Hightown. “I’ll shift some coin around, see if we can get a few more reliable volunteers now that Anders isn’t the main attraction.” Funny how those bleeding heart Fereldens had disappeared the moment the healer had become scarce. “Lighten up you and Daisy’s schedules a bit. And the next time Blondie stands you up for a date, look me up. I may not have soulful rebel eyes, but sharp wits and a full chest of hair have got to count for something.”

Carver gave a rough-sounding laugh, rubbing at his eyes again. They were bloodshot, bleary. Just looking at them made Varric’s own eyes burn. “You weren’t supposed to know about our, uh, meetings,” Carver said.

“Kid,” Varric chuckled, clapping him gently on the back, “the number of things I’m not supposed to know would keep the Chanters squawking for weeks. Come on,” he added, gentler. “Let’s get you inside and settled before you have to head out again. When was the last time you _ate_?”

“When was the last time I said you could butt in?” Carver elbowed him away, though his scowl was half-hearted at best. The kid clearly needed someone to tie him down and spoon porridge down his throat. Maybe knock him upside the thick skull and get him to sleep it off for a week or two. “Oh, that’s right— _never_. So leave off.”

“Maybe you _need_ someone to mother you,” Varric countered. “You’re doing a piss-poor job of it yourself.”

“And maybe you should _fuck off_ ,” Carver snarled, this time pushing him away for real. He vaulted up the remaining steps while Varric was still trying to catch his balance—both literally and metaphorically—practically racing on long legs around the corner and out of sight.

Varric stood there on the Hightown steps, utterly baffled. What had crawled up the kid’s ass and died _this_ time? But then his own words began to unspool slowly in his head ( _maybe you need someone to mother you_ ) and he sighed, hands closing into impotent fists.

Well… _shit_.

Because reminding the kid about the mother he hadn’t been able to save was really going to do _any_ good at all.

“Varric Tethras,” he muttered to himself, gamely climbing the rest of the steps and heading to the old Amell estate, “time to get your head out of your ass. ‘Cause this is just plain embarrassing.”

It was early enough that the Hightown streets were mostly empty, only the servants or street sweeps up and about. They gave Varric and wide berth as he let himself into the shuttered estate. The house was quiet, fireplace dark and entranceway empty. He could just make out low voices drifting down the steps—Carver and Anders, he’d wager, though there was always the chance Bodahn had wandered up from his room at the sound of the front door opening.

Varric unstrapped Bianca and set her into the drifts of dust on Hawke’s empty writing desk. He listened to the cadence of those voices as he made his way up the steps and down the hall, alert for… He wasn’t quite sure. Something other than the usual pain and bitterness and loss.

 _You should swing by more often_ , Varric told himself. His hands were actually sweating, and there was nothing he wanted to see less than his best friend’s body, lifeless but for the steady rise and fall of his chest. All this time later, and it still made him sick inside to see the quiet shell of laughing Aidan Hawke. _Stop being such a nugshit._

The door was open, cast in flickering shadows and light from the dancing fire. Varric stopped in the doorway, Carver just inside with his back to him—shoulders set at almost military stiffness, back ramrod straight. Anders, Varric realized with a start, was in Hawke’s _bed_ , hair rumpled from sleep, one arm _still_ tucked around the other man’s middle in a protective, strangely possessive gesture. Though who Anders intended to protect Aidan _from_ , Varric couldn’t say.

“…made it onto the ship safely,” Carver was saying. His voice was just as stiff as his body, so brittle it sounded like he might snap in half at any moment.

Anders rubbed at his face, finally letting go of Hawke long enough to push himself up onto one arm. Stationed at the foot of the bed, so still Varric hadn’t seen him in the shadows, Troubled lifted his head and whined. “Thank you, Carver,” Anders said. “I’m glad they made it. I wish I… I wish I could have been there, but…”

“Yeah,” Carver said, crossing his arms. “I know. Did you have to…?”

Anders shook his head. “Not tonight. I thought I might. I swear I would have gone if I knew I wouldn’t be needed, but, well.”

“Yeah,” Carver said again.

“Next time.”

“Yeah,” he said, and behind him, Varric winced.

“Is Merrill,” Anders began awkwardly, and really, that was about all Varric was willing to stomach. He cleared his throat even as he stepped around Carver, startling them both—no wonder, the way they had been trapped in their tense little drama like a duo of the world’s most committed actors. “Ah. Hello, Varric.”

Varric affected a loose grin. “Good to see you too, Blondie; Trouble,” he said, meandering over to one of the room’s few chairs. It was pushed all the way back by the folding screen, as if discouraging anyone to come and sit for a spell. Varric ignored the pointed message—and Anders’ flat look—and began dragging it over to the bed. “You’re looking bright-eyed today.”

Anders bristled. “What are you implying?”

He pressed his hands to the high chair back and _pushed_ until he was happy with its position. Then, ignoring the mage’s affronted glare, Varric climbed up and deliberately leaned an elbow against the mattress. Was it his imagination, or did Anders lean in toward him, hovering over Hawke?

Varric cocked his head and dropped a hand over Hawke’s still one. Anders frowned; if he had fur, it would’ve been standing on end. Yeah, he was feeling possessive all right. _Territorial,_ even, though Varric was damned if he could remember Hawke ever giving more of himself to Anders than he did to any of his close friends. What was happening in this house? Maker, but this whole situation was getting more and more fucked by the day.

“ _Well_?”

“Nothing,” Varric said. He clasped Hawke’s hand and met Anders’ gaze straight-on.  “Just wondering: since Isabela and Merrill are watching your clinic, and I’m here watching your charge, what’s to keep _you_ from going downstairs and making breakfast? And make sure you take Junior with you,” he added before Anders could protest. “The boy looks three steps from passing out. Shepherding a gaggle of young mages on top of a full duty rotation on top of hopping at the viscount’s beck and call must be exhausting, yeah? Good thing Carver has _us_ to take care of him.”

Anders opened his mouth to retort, but his gaze ticked over to where Carver was standing—standing and swaying just a little, the shadows on his face made even starker by the flickering firelight. Varric didn’t feel any pleasure watching Anders’ expression melt from annoyance to worry to _shame_ , but he did squeeze Hawke’s lax fingers when the mage scrambled out of their—no, _Hawke’s_ , damn it—bed. “You look about ready to fall on your _arse_ ,” Anders scolded, grabbing Carver’s elbow.

Carver tried to yank away, but Anders just gave him a perfectly flat look and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s head down to the kitchen and get the fire started. Some food, some rest, and a bit of healing will keep you going until it’s time for bed.”

“You need to save it for Aidan,” Carver protested—but he didn’t try to pull away again, melting willingly into Anders as the other man turned him around and helped him out into the hall. “He needs your mana more than I do. I can just—”

“You can just shut up; how about that?” Anders said with remarkable gentleness before glancing back over his shoulder, as if Hawke’s name was enough to anchor him here. He looked at Varric, a frown between his brows. “You…know what to look for, right?” he asked. “You’ll call me if you see any of the signs?”

Varric let his sharp-edged smile go gentle, reassuring. “I’ve watched Hawke’s back for this long,” he said. “I’m not gonna let demons get him now. Go on. Take care of yourselves; Hawke and I have some gossip to catch up on.”

Anders still hesitated a long minute. Wavering. Like he was torn between two impossibly strong impulses: Aidan Hawke on one end, Carver Hawke on the other. Like he wasn’t sure he even knew how to _not_ be by Aidan’s side anymore.

Depressing thing was, Varric was starting to think that might be all too true. “Go on,” Varric said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “I’ve got this. I’ll yell if we need you.”

“Anders,” Carver began, starting to pull away. And whether it was Varric’s reassurances or Carver’s withdrawal, he couldn’t say, but Anders tightened his grip on the younger man and nodded once—almost more to himself than Varric.

“All right,” Anders said, casting one final glance at Hawke before firmly turning away. “And you,” he added, inflection changing, going lilting and soft again as he and Carver made their way down the hall. “Am I really going to have to tie you to a chair and…”

Varric stopped listening as their voices grew more indistinct. He wished he knew what to do for those two, at least—but everything was all mixed up and turned on its head. It had been for weeks, _months_ , now, ever since…

Well.

How would he phrase it in one of his serials? Since they’d all lost their sense of gravity, maybe. Since they’d all lost their way. And it shouldn’t have been possible for one man to be compass and guide for so many, but without Aidan Hawke holding their merry band of misfits together, it seemed like the whole world had gone into the bloody void.

“You’ve been missing all sorts of excitement during your little nap, Hawke,” Varric said. He smiled as if Hawke could actually see him, lopsided and only a little brittle. “Let’s see, how about a run-down? Shit, where to even start? The viscount losing his grip on power—that’s a good one. Chantry sisters plotting in corners; not even the choir boy knows what to say to _that._ Oh, hey, how about the qunari getting people all worked up, or maybe the tension bubbling between the Templars and the Circle? Or one of the other thousands of things going wrong here. Just another shitty few months in Kirkwall, right?” He laughed, but ended it in a cough. It sounded off; _wrong_. Forced in all the worst ways. _Keep it together, Tethras._

“You know, it’d be helpful if you decided to wake up and lend us a hand—it’s going to take some serious firepower to fix this mess. And I hate to break it to you, but as charming and handsome as I may be, I’m about as useful as a third nut when it comes to that kind of shit.”

He tried to laugh again; failed. Instead, he grimaced as he rubbed his thumb over Hawke’s palm. His hands were cold, though; clammy. _Lifeless_. Varric had to stroke higher, to feel out the steady thrum of Hawke’s pulse, to reassure himself that his friend hadn’t died between one breath and the next.

The steady pulse should have been reassuring, but fuck, it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t. Because Hawke may have been technically alive, but that wasn’t his friend lying there. No, _his friend_ had been gone for a hell of a long time now, and it was starting to feel like the whole fucking world was crumbling without him.

Was that even possible? To care about one person so much that his loss felt like you’d swallowed the void?

He let out a harsh breath and let go. There was nothing left to hold onto anyway.

“Well _shit_ , Hawke. You know… I like to think I’m the dwarf with a plan,” Varric forced himself to continue. “But here’s the thing: without you, it’s all gone crazy. It’s all… Shit, your _mother_. I am so— We tried, you know? You’ve gotta know that. We tried to track her down, but we were too late. We made too many _idiot_ mistakes. _Maker’s balls._ ”

Varric turned roughly away to glare toward the fire, as if the flames could burn away the inexcusable heat he felt gathering at his lashes. _Keep your shit together_ , he thought, and yet, fuck, what was there to keep together anymore anyway? Hawke, Fenris, Leandra. And now, it seemed, Carver. Somewhere along the way, he’d gone and failed the best friend he’d ever had, and he had no idea how to bloody fucking _fix_ it.

It was shit; it was all, _all_ shit. And if that best friend woke right now, Varric would happily let Hawke strangle him.

“Shit. Hawke. I’m _sorry_ ,” Varric said, voice gone rough as gravel, grit catching in his throat. His eyes. He scrubbed at his face, fighting to keep from shuddering apart. It was a hell of a battle. “I just, I screwed up. Not sure how, not sure where, but… I should have done something. I should have…figured something out; if I’m so clever, I should’ve been able to figure something out. Right?”

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

“It’s just— Aveline’s gone to ground, Isabela’s looking hunted, Merrill and Anders’re draining themselves dry keeping you alive, Fenris is _void_ knows where, Carver’s on some kind of one-man quest to save this city, and I’m just— Letting it all happen.”

Maker, he sounded morose. Pathetic. If Hawke really were here, he’d knock their shoulders together and offer to buy him a round at the Hanged Man—listen to him whine somewhere a little more comfortable. He’d argue and try to come at it all from a different perspective, and make Varric _laugh_ until somehow together they’d broken down these insurmountable problems and made them feel like a challenge they could overcome together.

Like…like a puzzle they’d solved. Like a game.

Maybe that was why it was all falling apart. Without Hawke-the-hero around, life didn’t feel quite so much like an adventure anymore.

“Hey, Hawke, here’s a morose thought for you,” Varric said, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was starting to pound; he felt, suddenly, so incredibly old. “What do you call an adventure after the hero is gone?”

He waited, listening, as if Hawke might actually sit up and answer after being trapped in his impenetrable Fade-dream for so long. There was the pop and crack of flames, the soft steady gust of Hawke’s breath, the sound of pots rattling downstairs. There at Hawke’s feet, so still Varric had almost forgotten about him, Trouble gave a near-silent wine.

“No guesses?” Varric said, allowing himself a small, bitter smile. Well, it was stupid to hope anyway. As if a _story_ could rouse Hawke where magic had failed. “It’s pretty simple, actually. They call it _The End_.”


	44. Feynriel

Feynriel drew up his legs, resting his chin on knobby knees. He was sitting perched on a bit of jagged rock in the Fade, watching as his Voice glided through a series of drills. Storm clouds gathered overhead and lightning flashed in the distance, across the Waking Sea. That huge one-eyed qunari was in his Voice’s dream again tonight, shouting:

“Block! Block! What’re you doing with that shield, Krem: serving up cheese?”

Thunder rumbled and Krem tossed back his dark sweep of bangs, grimacing. “I’ll serve you something stronger if you don’t shut up,” he said.

“Good one,” Feynriel called, even though neither could hear him. It was better when he pretended he was actually there with Krem and Bull and the others instead of hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, watching through his dreams. It made this thing between them feel more _real_. “Now try again.”

“ _Again!_ ” Bull called at the exact same moment, and Krem grit his teeth and lowered his shield, falling back into the beautifully fluid series of moves. It looked like a dance to Feynriel; muscles rippled and sweat beaded on bronzed skin, wending its way down Krem’s temples as he flowed from once stance to the next before grimacing into the final strike.

He paused, holding his stance for a few heartbeats, and let out a harsh breath. “Take _that_ you bloody bastard,” Krem growled, twisting his sword away with a flourish.

Feynriel knew next to nothing about sword work (other than, vaguely, which end to hold and which to stick into things), but he popped to his feet applauding anyway, laughing when Krem straightened with a grin—heart lurching in that way it always did whenever he saw a flash of a dimple, there and gone again in an instant. “That was _perfect_ ,” Feynriel said, moving forward; drawn close, as always. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Well?” Krem demanded.

Bull just crossed his arms. “Could be better,” he said. “Could be worse.”

“Shove it up your arse!” Feynriel protested, whirling on the Bull.

“ _Could be better_?” Krem said, words overlapping with Feynriel’s. A single brow arched and he rocked back onto his heels, amused where Feynriel was offended. That wasn’t unusual with them. “You want to hoist your big arse down here and show me how it should be done, then?”

Feynriel crossed his arms, scowling. “He probably wasn’t even looking,” he said. “And if he was, he clearly doesn’t know his arsehole from his eyeball. You did it right the first time.” And then, because he was as honest as he was inclined to believe Krem could do just about anything: “Well. I assume, anyway, since I have no idea what it was supposed to look like.”

Bull just snorted and straightened—taller and taller and taller, utterly _massive_. In Krem’s dreams, he always seemed more mountain than qunari, though the exact size of him shifted depending on Krem’s moods. Now, he was nearly double their height and a good six times their width. Muscles were rippling on muscles; it was frankly a little disturbing. “Nah—no need. Try a little more oomph,” he said (boomed, really, voice magnified to a disturbing degree,) “and a little less sass, and maybe next time you’ll be able to follow through.”

He grinned, smile stretching huge and white, then turned and sauntered away…muscles rippling in a thoroughly distracting way.

Feynriel made a face at his retreating back. “Your continued crush is incredibly annoying,” he told Krem, not really meaning it. The Bull showed up often enough in his Voice’s dreams that he was beginning to understand the incredibly complex relationship between the two—part gratitude, part hero worship, part amusement, part annoyance, part love that perfectly walked the line between friendship and attraction. There were moments when he felt pangs of jealousy, but overall, he was grateful to the Bull.

After all, without Bull, Feynriel might very well not have a living Voice.

Krem turned away, giving his sword an experimental swing. Feynriel watched with a fond smile. He’d keep practicing the same move over and over until dawn reached…wherever he was…and dreams began to fracture around him. It was amazing how focused his Voice’s mind was. How much of a quiet sanctuary it could be.

That, he mused as he watched Krem silhouetted against the gathering storm, was probably what made Krem his Voice in the first place. That wry humor, that sarcasm, that bedrock _self_ that never seemed to waver despite all the challenges life had thrown him. Krem was his opposite in so many ways, and if they ever had a chance to meet in person…

Well. Feynriel was awkward and inexperienced enough not to know _quite_ what he would do, but he could think of a hundred different things he wanted from Krem, not least of which was to see that flashing dimple up close. To have _caused_ that quicksilver smile. Maybe lean in and taste it against his lips and tongue.

Feynriel covered his face with both hands, laughing at himself even as he blushed. _Blushed_. In a dream! Where absolutely no one could see him.

“Honestly, Krem,” he said, voice muffled, “if I ever do find you, there’s a high likelihood I’ll face plant in the dirt the second you look at me.”

Krem didn’t answer, moving through the steps of his attack with the grace of a dancer. Overhead, lightning flickered again and again.

Feynriel sighed and rubbed the meat of his palms against his eyes. He could feel himself responding to each lightning flash, form beginning to flicker subtly as the night pressed deeper into him. It would be dawn in Tevinter soon enough, he figured—the time for dreaming was over.

“Just,” he said, dragging his fingers through loose blond hair. His lips twisted into a quirking smile when he looked at Krem one last time, watching the rhythmic bunch and release of muscles, cataloging each powerful swing: it would have to be enough to see him through yet another day without the other half of his soul. “Just promise me you’ll at least try to find me charming. _When_ I find you.”

Krem didn’t answer— _of course_ he didn’t answer—but he did reach the end of one set of swings, spinning easily on his heel to face Feynriel as he readied himself to cross the span of rocky beach again. His brows were drawn into a fierce frown of concentration, but for the briefest of moments, Feynriel could have sworn he saw a flash of that smile.

“That’s good enough,” he decided. Then he gave a painfully awkward wave. “Good night. Dream well. I, ah, um, love you.”

Feynriel turned his face, blushing _harder_ , and closed his eyes against the Fade. He cast out—like swimming through a perfectly still lake, diving down deep waters—and sped away from the bright lure of his Voice’s mind. All around him, millions— _more_ —lights beckoned, flickering at the corners of his consciousness. He floated past them as if adrift amongst pure starlight, resisting the temptation to dip his fingers into sleeping minds as he passed.

There were demons in the darkness; but then, there were always demons, and he was no longer afraid of what they could do to him. He was stronger than that. Aidan Hawke had taught him to be stronger.

 _Aidan_ , Feynriel thought, a smile touching his lips as he sped through the dreams of millions of sleepers. _I wonder how he’s been doing._

As if drawn by the brief stirrings of curiosity, Feynriel felt himself focusing on a bright, familiar light in the distance. He resisted the pull—Aidan wouldn’t welcome the intrusion—before reluctantly letting himself turn his full attention to its pull. Now that he was thinking about it, Aidan hadn’t written in weeks. _Months_. It wouldn’t hurt to check in to make sure everything was going well.

And if Aidan wanted him to go, he would go. It was as simple as that.

The light grew, expanded, opening like a flower beneath him as he sank into the sleeping mage’s dreams—and _slammed_ against an invisible barrier moments before making contact.

The pain of it was a white-hot shock, and Feynriel cried out in reflexive surprise. Down below him—above— _Maker_ , all _around_ him—eyes opened in the darkness. He sucked in a breath and pulled back, aware of scores and _scores_ of demons skittering about the edges of Aidan’s consciousness. Oh, oh, this was not good. This was not good at _all_.

Feynriel turned back to the wall that had kept him from entering Aidan’s dreams, fear churning sick in his gut. He wanted to flee the demons ( _so many; oh Maker, there are so many of them_ ) but he couldn’t leave Aidan to fight this alone. Not when Aidan had done so much to save him. If he concentrated, he could see Aidan the way he always saw the sleeping minds he visited, only it was as if through a distorted pane of glass, his vision of the other man alarmingly blurry.

“Hawke?” Feynriel said. He cautiously drifted closer again, hyperaware of the demons skittering back, and reached out to touch the barrier. It was ice cold beneath his fingertips yet throbbed with a queasy sort of power. When he pressed, it gave beneath his hands—but _slowly_ , as if he were pushing through a spell that dragged each second into minutes, into hours, into days.

 _What happened to you?_ he thought, pulling away again. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest; he couldn’t remember ever being this afraid.

And yet…was that _him_ feeling such sick, crushing fear? Or had the emotion washed over him at the first touch of Aidan’s sleeping mind?

Fuck. Fuck _fuck_ fuck.

“Hawke, can you hear me?” Feynriel reached out again, even more tentatively this time, and ran his fingertips along the barrier. It rippled at his touch but held strong. It felt—

Strangely, it felt like Anders. Or, more accurately, the Anders-and-Justice he remembered from his own dreamscape, when Aidan had led his friends deep into his mind to save him. But why would Anders-and-Justice need to throw up barriers around Aidan? And why, _why_ were there so many demons swirling about in the darkness, waiting, waiting, waiting? It didn’t make sense. None of this made any _sense_.

“Okay,” Feynriel said, swallowing down the rising panic. He’d been studying the somniari arts long enough to feel confident when faced with everyday dreams, but he’d never been told what to do when faced with _this_. It was frightening and new and completely out of his realm of understanding. Anyone else and he may have retreated back out of an innate wariness, but…

But this was _Aidan Hawke_. He’d saved Feynriel’s _life_. No, more than that: he’d refused to allow them to make Feynriel Tranquil. He’d saved Feynriel’s _everything_.

Feynriel couldn’t just…turn away from a debt like that.

“Okay,” he said again, wetting his lips. Feynriel reached out with trembling hands and pressed his palms against the strange magical barrier again. He closed his eyes and gently began to _push,_ using every trick he’d learned in Tevinter to catalogue the Fade’s reactions as he made his way carefully carefully carefully past the magical resistance. He could smell the bright burn of lyrium; he could hear a racing heartbeat. Skittering nails and susurrus voices. Concentrating, he could _feel_ the mana slowly bleeding past the porous surface of the dome—unspooling into the surrounding Fade like a watercolor, like blood in the water.

Maker, no _wonder_ there were so many demons. If Aidan was bleeding out mana, he may as well have been chumming the waters for sharks.

Feynriel grit his teeth and gave a last push, tumbling past the final bit of resistance and into the quiet prison of Aidan’s dreamscape. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t stifle a low hiss of breath, his own body settling into a wary defensive stance as the sheer wreckage of his friend came into full view.

This…this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how the Fade was supposed to _look_. It was a raw, open wound; a scream given shape. The air swirled dark with escaping mana, storm clouds pushing in a violent vortex against the shield just visible above them. The earth was blackened rock, polished to a mirror shine. It erupted at irregular intervals, spires of rock slamming up in sharp peaks before collapsing in a crumble of stone, only to the consumed by the hungry earth below. As if the Fade were feeding off its own energy.

As if somehow Aidan’s magic had begun to cannibalize itself.

“Hawke?” Feynriel called, his voice weak as a child’s. He cleared his throat and tried again, carefully drifting down to the uncertain ground. “ _Aidan_? Where are you?”

No answer. Nothing but the whistling wind, buffeting his robes as it was funneled up up up toward Anders’ barrier.

He took a step, then another, eyes casting across the ruined landscape. There were vestiges of a dream here or there, mostly rotted away but a few still recognizable. Feynriel thought he saw Carver in Templar armor, tears rolling down a ruined face. The dwarf, Varric, sitting in a mostly-rotted chair, his hand clasping something invisible. Anders, gaunt and asleep beneath a tattered canopy. A woman in a wedding veil, her filmy eyes staring up up up, a lily clasped to her chest.

“ _Maker_ ,” he said, very near tears himself. This…this was too much. This was all _too much_. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Aidan said from just behind him.

Feynriel whirled, nearly tripping over his own feet in his fright. The shifting shadowy forms flickered in response, edges curling into dark mist before reappearing—and there, sitting by the corner of a caved-in well, was Aidan Hawke. He looked… _small_ , hurt, nothing like the fearless hero Feynriel remembered fighting his way into his own dreams. Younger than he should have been by a good ten years and trembling when he reached up to push back a dark tangle of curls.

A boy. It was Aidan—he was _sure_ it was Aidan—but he looked for a moment no more than a boy. And then when Feynriel blinked he was sitting up straighter and he was his own age again—yet still a little hunched, as if he were favoring a wounded side. “Hawke,” Feynriel breathed.

“They appear sometimes,” Aidan was saying, dulled grey eyes darting toward the woman with the lily and then away again. “Taking shape. Mostly they disappear quickly after, but a few linger. I think maybe—” He paused and wet his lips, gaze dropping. Feynriel took a cautious step forward. “It’s possible I’m hearing people talk around me, and my mind’s filling in the bold strokes. I’m almost certain my mother is dead. Carver is pushing himself closer and closer to the same fate. And he’s always there.”

Feynriel half-turned at Aidan’s nod to see the flickering, insubstantial form of Anders shift in his sleep, one arm thrown out toward Aidan possessively.

“Mother, Anders, and Carver are fairly constant, actually,” Aidan continued. “But you—you’re new.” Aidan hesitated as Feynriel turned back to face him. “Are you…real?” he asked.

“What? Oh,” Feynriel said, startled enough to take another step. Aidan actually tensed at the movement, but he didn’t try to pull away as Feynriel drifted near; above them, the dark wind began to howl. “Yes. I’m real. I’m dream-walking. I thought I’d check in to see how you were doing.”

Aidan cocked his head. “Oh. Well, as you can see, things are going just great for me.”

A few feet away, the earth erupted into a spire, thrusting toward the distant barrier before crumbling in on itself.

“Um!” Feynriel said, cringing closer to Aidan. He half-stumbled, half-fell down onto the crumbled rim of the well next to him, too nervous to stay standing on that deadly mirrored landscape a second longer. “Yes, so, friendly sarcasm aside: _what is happening_?”

Aidan sighed, turning to face him. He flickered for a moment, young again. The silver scars that traced his chin, his throat, stood out starkly in the dim. “I made a mistake,” he said. When he drew in his next breath, he was older—it was almost too difficult to watch the way he shifted, like rippling water. It hurt in a way Feynriel couldn’t quite put his finger on. “ _I_ did this. _This_ ,” he added, placing his hand deliberately against the lip of the well. “I tore my soulbond out at the root and it all…just came pouring out of me. I could feel their breaths against my skin, their nails digging deep—” He took a breath. “My magic fleeing. The next thing I knew, I was here and the demons were up there.”

Aidan pointed toward the barrier. It seemed weaker than it had just a few minutes (hours? Seconds? Time was passing so strangely here) ago. As he watched, Feynriel could spot shadowy shapes trace across its surface, there and gone again. Aidan’s mana seemed to be spilling out through its porous give faster and faster, leaving the air feeling thin and dry. “They push their way through eventually,” Aidan was saying, “before the barrier’s there again, stronger, keeping them out. It always weakens, though. It always disappears. And they’re always on me before I can escape. I think…” He clasped his hands together, staring down at them intently. “I think I’m trapped here.”

“No,” Feynriel said. He reached out impulsively, grabbing Aidan’s hand. That sudden spark of contact was like an electric jolt, but he just held on tighter, meeting the other man’s eyes. _Forcing_ him to listen. “Maybe if you were still on your own, but you’re not _on_ your own anymore, are you?”

“Feynriel,” Aidan began.

Feynriel just squeezed tighter. “You saved my life, once,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to the chance to return the favor. I’m not sure I can fix all of this, but…” He glanced up toward the dome, then back down at the ruined well.

In the Fade, he’d learned from his new Tevinter teacher, things often took very literal form. Anders was putting up some kind of healing magical barrier to keep out the demons and keep in Aidan’s swiftly escaping mana. And the well…

Aidan may not have been able to shape the Fade to his will, but Feynriel was a somniari; he was a dreamer. This was the sort of thing he was _created_ to do. He gathered his own power, using his will to push at the rubble. Feynriel could feel the resistance, as if there was some other, deeper force pushing _back_. But he grit his teeth and kept trying, shifting heavy rocks inch by painful inch.

He had to let go of Aidan’s hand, turning to focus all of his attention on the well. With his power pouring into its edges, he could start to feel just how deep the damage went. He could also feel it shifting shape beneath him the way dreams often did—crumbled well one moment, lightning-struck tree the next, the blackened ruin seeping down down down into its very roots.

Aidan reached out as if to help, but his fingers passed through stone, insubstantial. Overhead, a pride demon howled. “Fuck,” Aidan breathed.

“It’s all right,” Feynriel said. “I was pretty helpless when you found me, too.”

“That isn’t true,” Aidan said, and the warmth that flooded Feynriel at those words gave him the strength he needed to move the crumbled stone another inch, to fight harder for Aidan’s escape. “You fought back, in the end. You were always so much stronger than you gave yourself credit for.”

Feynriel smiled, though it turned into a grimace partway through. He was already exhausted, and he’d barely had an impact. Yet, when he sat back to dash away streaming sweat, he could see that some of the biggest rocks had been shifted. The well wasn’t open, but it was closer—and with that, Aidan was one step closer to being free of whatever prison he’d created for himself. He was _certain_ of it. “Well,” he said, “it looks like we’ll have plenty of time to find out. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened as I work?” he added, ignoring Aidan’s wince. It would help to know what he was dealing with.

“It is not an easy story to tell,” Aidan murmured, glancing over his shoulder toward where the ghostly figments of his own dreams lay scattered like corpses across the Fade.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that, too,” Feynriel said, refocusing. “Start at the beginning.”

Time didn’t mean much in the Fade, but Feynriel woke to Tevinter sunlight streaming through his window every morning, and he fell asleep each night with renewed determination. He didn’t go back to visit Krem; he didn’t skim his mother’s dreams to make sure she was well, and he didn’t practice the exercises his teacher had given to him.

He had one goal and one focus: free Aidan from the Fade. After that, he could worry about the rest.

It was grueling work broken by sudden changes in the dreamscape around them, like nightmares taking shape. Sometimes the barrier fell and the demons came pouring in; sometimes Aidan’s mana grew so weak he was barely able to keep upright, eyes dilated nearly black, lips parted as if he were dying of thirst. The pain had to be incredible, but Aidan just bit his nails into the ruined well of his powers and patiently waited it out—

—and sure enough eventually a new barrier would form, strong enough in its first blush of power to trap Aidan’s mana again, keeping it from bleeding dry as it kept the demons at bay.

The nightmare forms changed over the weeks, Leandra fading, Carver growing stronger, Anders never-changing. Isabela appeared once, curled up on herself and looking haunted; Aveline another time, standing strong yet haggard. Sometimes, Feynriel swore he could hear voices echoing, words barely intelligible, as if heard from an incredible distance.

And then, one night, the rubble shifted beneath the grip of his powers—and he felt a breeze drifting from the previously blocked well.

It smelled sharp with lyrium and blood; it carried with it a bright charge of light, like the flicker of Fenris’s markings. Very distantly, Feynriel swore he could hear the steady thrum of the sea…and above that, droning higher and higher, someone snoring.

Aidan straightened by his side, immediately on alert. “Did you,” he began, startled.

Feynriel grinned. “Save the day?” he said, sitting back. It was only a tiny opening, but he thought it might be enough for Aidan to climb through—and climb free. Maker, how strange the Fade was. “Why yes. Yes I did. I could probably do more…”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Aidan said, immediately reaching out to clasp his hand. He looked more like himself than he had in days-weeks-months, grey eyes bright, tired face twisted into a grateful smile. “I’m serious. _Thank_ you, Feynriel.”

“It may not work,” Feynriel warned, though he was grinning—exhausted himself, but so happy he could burst. He’d done it. He’d actually done some good. “It may not lead you out of here.”

“But it may,” Aidan countered, smile going warmer. “I can do something with _may._ That’s the first bit of hope I’ve had in what feels like forever.”

Feynriel wasn’t going to allow himself to tear up; he _wasn’t_. “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” he promised, “to make sure it holds. And then after I’ve had a chance to rest and learn more, I’ll be back. There’s still a great deal to do to repair the damage that’s been done.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Aidan said again. He reached forward, embraced him. Overhead, the barrier still held and the demons still waited, but Feynriel _was_ crying after all—relieved, ecstatic, grateful, _powerful_. For the first time since he’d heard the distant whisper of magic in his dreams, he felt well and truly _powerful_ —and more than that, for the first time happy to have been given such a strange, heavy burden to carry. Somniari; maybe there was something to this dreamer thing after all.

“Yes, well,” Feynriel said, snuffling like a child against Aidan Hawke’s shoulder, flushed a bright berry red. Thank the Maker his Voice couldn’t see him now; he didn’t want Krem to realize just how hopeless he was. Not until he was certain Krem could find it in his heart to love him _back_. “What else are friends good for, I guess?”

Not the most suave or heroic of lines—especially seeing as his voice hitched midway through like a boy still coming out of puberty—but for a first attempt, he supposed it wasn’t so bad. And a few seconds later, he got to watch Aidan break free of the iron hold the Fade had had on him for the first time in _months_ , shadowy figures disappearing as the ruined landscape of his dream faded into nothing, leaving only:

The well.

The barrier.

And Feynriel, watching the shadows of disappointed demons hissing and twisting above his head; waiting for their escaped prey to return. Aidan was still bleeding out into the Fade. His mana was still escaping at an alarming rate.

“But it’s a start,” he told himself, closing his eyes and letting himself drift toward consciousness—too exhausted to do more than give himself over to sleep.

And slowly, lost in his own soothing dreamscape with Krem like the brightest of stars in his endless horizon, Feynriel began to smile.


	45. Aidan

Aidan woke with a start.

It took a confused moment to recognize the canopy of his own bed; his head was whirling with a torrent of thoughts, impressions, memories, emotions. It felt stuffed full and yet shockingly empty all at once. His chest ached with a hollow sort of pressure.

Pain. Pain. _Painpainpain._

_Stop it_ , Aidan told himself, closing his eyes tight. He took a breath in, held it, let it out. Then another. Another.

When he looked around again, the familiar landscape of his room began to take shape. The four-poster bed, the wardrobe, the desk, the sound of Trouble breathing deep somewhere near his feet. He turned his head at a dim awareness—a warm gust against his cheek—and blinked at Anders’ sleeping face. The other man was curled close to him, hunched protectively; one hand gripped the sheets bunched around Aidan’s hips. And oh, Maker, he looked terrible.

Aidan bit his lower lip as he studied his sleeping friend. There were shadows dark as bruises beneath his eyes. He looked gaunt, almost wasted, as if he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. The sallow cast to his skin spoke of constantly straining against the limits of his mana, and the scruff shading his hollowed cheeks seemed to have more salt scattered through the dark bristles than Aidan remembered. Anders looked _exhausted_ and yet restless, as if he might spring up into action at any moment.

_I’m so sorry,_ Aidan thought, reaching out to very very lightly touch his fingertips to Anders’ cheek. _I never meant to bring you so low._ He reached for his own well of mana, calling up a healing spell as familiar as breathing.

He may as well have tried to grab hold of the rain; the mana slipped through his thoughts like water from a broken glass and the spell dissipated before it could take hold.

_Oh. Oh no._

Aidan went still. His heart thundered so loud in his chest it was all he could hear. He slowly sat up, moving quietly so he wouldn’t disturb man nor beast, and turned toward that single flickering candlelight—needing to _know_. Calling on the element that had always come easiest, he willed it to burn _brighter_.

The flame guttered, flickering as if against a whisper—and nothing further.

_No._

Aidan let out a soft puff of breath. He could keep trying—could keep straining to grasp his mana, could try to fling spell after spell after spell—but he already knew there wasn’t any point. There was a chance Feynriel would be able to help him repair the damage, but for now he had to accept that magic was beyond him.  That it may always be beyond him.

Maker, what a horrible thought. But considering everything that had happened since Fenris— _Fenris_ —had come to him…he supposed it was a small price. It was—

_Fenris_.

It was—

_Fenris_.

It—

Aidan slipped from the bed, breaths coming harsher, more frantic, and nearly collapsed into a graceless heap the moment his feet hit the floor. He grabbed at the bedpost and held on with all his strength, willing his wobbly knees to strengthen even as he fought against a wave of pure _grief_. There wasn’t enough air in the room; there wasn’t enough strength in his body. He was awake, but he was still trapped, and the place where Fenris had been _ached_ like a fresh wound—he could feel the absence of him pulsing with each rabbit-fast thud of his heart.

“Stop,” Aidan told himself, so quiet Anders and Trouble barely even stirred. “ _Stop_.”

His body, his mind, his _heart_ didn’t want to listen, but after a few minutes of breathing steadily and forcing back the rising tide of panic, Aidan managed to straighten and take a careful, shuffling step toward the door. The world seemed to tilt and move beneath him and his own body felt like a stranger’s, but each step brought him nearer and nearer until he was finally slipping out of his room for the first time in Maker only knew how long, shutting the door quietly behind him.

If his room had felt unfamiliar, the rest of the estate seemed completely alien in the dark. He pressed a hand against the wall and used it to guide him as he crept down the hall past Merrill’s door toward what had been his mother’s room. _Was still_ his mother’s room?

No. No, he was pretty sure she was gone. He’d heard it in his dreams; he’d _grieved_. Still, he had to know for sure.

Wetting his lips, Aidan grasped the doorknob and turned. The smell hit him first—clean linen and flowers, the kind Mother always dried and kept in her trunk. The sweet musk that had been her perfume. And beneath it all, the sullen, stale scent of uncirculated air—a room that had been locked away untouched for days, weeks, months.

He held on to the doorframe, eyes casting across the forgotten landscape, accepting what he already knew: she was long gone. Her bed lay made and untouched. Her silver-backed brushes gathered dust on her vanity. Her clothing hung forgotten just past the cracked-open doors of her wardrobe.

And yet when he drew in a staccato breath, he could _sense_ her memory in the familiar scent, the patiently-waiting tableau. Nothing had been touched since the day she had been taken, and even in death, her presence lingered—from the dressing robe draped across the back of a chair to her slippers tucked waiting beneath her bed to a bit of ribbon she’d been meaning to thread through a bodice  bought in the Hightown bazaar.

“Mother,” Aidan said, and his voice cracked mid-word as if he were a child again. He _felt_ like a child, standing here staring into the last gasping breath of his mother’s legacy. He wanted nothing more than to be able to run to her and press his face against her side, hiding from a world that had never been particularly kind to him.

Father, gone.

Bethany, gone.

Fenris, gone.

Mother…gone.

_I’m an orphan_ , Aidan thought, tightening his grip against the doorframe. Then, with a rush of resolve he hadn’t been certain he had left: _No. **We** are orphans_. Because despite everything he’d lost, he still had Carver. He still had his kid brother and the rest of their tumultuous, wonderful little found family.

He’d lost so much, but he hadn’t lost _everything_. He just needed to remember that whenever it felt like he was being driven to his knees.

Pulling back, Aidan quietly shut his mother’s door behind him. He fought the impulse to slink back into his own room to jostle Anders or Trouble awake—they needed their rest more than he needed comfort. Merrill as well; there was no telling how long it had been since she’d slept. Which left who? Bodahn? Sandal? Orana?

_Downstairs_.

The estate was huge and silent around him as he (carefully) made his way down the steps and back toward the kitchen. He moved like an old man, muscles still stiff from his long dream. Every now and again Aidan had to stop to regain his strength, leaning against a wall and breathing through the ache. When he finally made it to the (cold, empty) kitchen, he barely had the wherewithal to pull out a chair before he was collapsing at the big wooden table. It felt almost as if he were being weighted down—as if whatever emptiness there was inside him now was ten times heavier than the nascent bond, his magic, had ever been. It felt—

It felt _hopeless_ , but Aidan knew that wasn’t the case.

_Breathe_ , he thought, bowing his head and letting this latest wave of weakness wash through him. There was no point trying to fight it—he just needed to sit and _breathe_ and learn to readjust to, to, to _everything_. To the confirmed loss of his mother, to the ache inside where Fenris had been, to the magic as insubstantial as smoke billowing inside him, to the mana he could feel even now draining away bit by bit by bit, faster than it could replenish.

To the mounting certainty that his life, his sense of self, had been irrevocably changed.

That _he_ had changed.

“It isn’t everything,” Aidan murmured, reminding himself over and over despite the slowly mounting panic that wanted to claim him again. “It isn’t everyone. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s got to be okay. It’s—”

And on and on and on until his voice went hoarse and he shuddered from the chill—and the sound of a footfall startled him back from darkly circling thoughts.

Aidan looked up, watching as Carver— _Carver_ —moved into the kitchen from the secret entrance that led into Darktown. He was dressed in his old leathers and looked like absolute shit, cheeks as hollowed as Anders’ had been, smudged violet beneath his eyes. On him clung the stench of Darktown and the lingering smell of the sea, as if he’d been trudging down the Wounded Coast this late at night. He fumblingly unfastened his sword and tossed it onto the counter with a dull clatter; he didn’t seem to notice Aidan.

Aidan wet his lips. “Carver,” he said— _quietly_ , to keep from startling his little brother.

He may as well not have bothered. Carver whirled with a sucking gasp, grabbing for his sword even as he went crashing back into the cabinets. His eyes were huge in his suddenly splotchy-pale face, and if it had been any other time, Aidan would have laughed at the way he scrambled to keep his balance.

Instead, he half-rose, reaching out as if he could somehow catch him. “It’s okay,” Aidan promised quickly. “It’s just me.”

“It’s _just—_ ” Carver began, almost _angrily_. He pushed himself off of the cabinets and strode over, so quick and intense that for a moment, Aidan thought he was going to take a swing at him. But then, before he could instinctively flinch back, Carver was grabbing him and hauling him up into a crushing hug that gentled _immediately_ , desperately tight yet oh-so-very careful. “Bloody void, _Aidan_. I thought—”

A million and one things filled that silence. _I thought you were going to die. I thought you’d never wake. I thought I’d lost you_. Aidan wrapped around his little brother, cupping the back of his skull as Carver pressed his face against Aidan’s shoulder, the way he used to when he was _very_ young and unashamed to be spotted climbing into laps. Carver’s hands curled into the back of his nightshirt and Aidan swore that the small, desperately hidden hitch of his brother’s breath was going to break his heart—was going to _shatter_ him in a million aching pieces. Fuck, _Carver_.

“I thought,” Carver said again, voice muffled and broken, somehow. He was holding on so tight that Aidan wouldn’t be able to pull free if he wanted to.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Aidan murmured, running trembling fingers through his little brother’s hair. Soothing him the way he used to soothe both of the twins when they were young, they were all so young; _fuck_ , when did they stop being so _young_? He felt as if they’d lived six lifetimes since they had to flee Redcliffe. All this time, and they’d both left so much behind. “Carver, I’m so, so sorry.”

Carver sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously watery, and when he pulled back to _glower_ at Aidan, his eyes were rimmed with red. “You’d better be, you asshole,” he said with absolutely no heat. “Do you realize what you’ve put the rest of us through?”

“I know,” Aidan said, thumbing away a lone tear that broke past Carver’s iron defenses. “I’m the _worst_.”

“You _are_ the worst,” Carver said, batting his hand away. But he didn’t step back—not entirely. It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Aidan for fear of losing him again. “I’m not sure why I keep putting up with it.”

Aidan did his best to smile and found that, somehow, it was an easy thing. Yes, the empty ache where _Fenris_ and _Mother_ had been was terrible, but Maker, at least he still had Carver. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without his sullen, grouchy, wonderful little brother. “You’re obviously a paragon,” he said gravely, cupping the back of Carver’s skull and pulling him close to rest their foreheads together. Carver melted back into the embrace with no resistance, huffing a quiet breath.

_I’m so relieved you’re still here_ , Aidan thought. _I’m not sure I could keep going without you._

“Aidan,” Carver said after what felt like a very long time. He reached up to wrap big fingers around Aidan’s wrist, eyes closed against what he was preparing to admit. “I have to tell you… Mother…”

Aidan sighed and reluctantly pulled away. “I know,” he said.

Carver jerked his head up to look at him. “You _know_?” he demanded. “How the void do you _know_?”

His legs were wobbly again. Aidan gestured to the table, moving gratefully to sink back into his chair when Carver gave a short nod. “I could hear some of what was being said…I think,” he added. “It was all very strange, as if I were hearing words underwater. Images sometimes formed, and I saw Mother… _gone_ , dressed in a wedding veil of all things.”

His brother dropped heavily into the chair cat-corner to his, powerful shoulders slumping forward. “A madman wanted to use her to bring back his dead wife,” he said. “The lilies. You remember the lilies?”

“Vaguely.”

“He would leave them before taking women for his…his experiments. Mother was the last. I tried… Aidan.” Carver looked up, and _now_ he looked young again—younger than his years, as lost and frightened as he’d never truly been as a child. “I tried _so hard_ to save her. But I was too late. If you had been there… I kept thinking, if _you_ were there instead of me, maybe…”

Aidan reached down and clasped his brother’s hand, grip tightening when Carver would have pulled away. “If I had been there,” he said evenly, intently, “nothing would have changed. Mother would still be gone, and we would still grieve her.”

Carver made a noise caught somewhere between a choked laugh and a sob and a growl, reaching up with his free hand to wipe angrily at his eyes. “The void you say,” he protested. “Everyone knows you’re some kind of bloody hero. You always swoop in and save the day while the rest of us sit around with our thumbs up our asses.”

“You’ve been listening to too many of Varric’s stories, brother,” Aidan said gently, squeezing his fingers before letting go. With Carver, it was always best not to overdo signs of affection—his brother was like a cat in many ways, only willing to take love on his own terms.

Like now. Carver grabbed Aidan’s hand before he could fully withdraw, meeting his eyes as he squeezed his fingers _back_. The gesture was quick—over with almost before Aidan could respond—but so heartfelt that it brought tears to Aidan’s own eyes. “No, _brother_ ,” Carver said, low. “I’ve seen enough to know it’s true. Everything has gone to shit without you; we _need_ you. So you’d better bloody be planning on sticking around.”

Aidan let out a shaky breath, sitting back in his chair. _Touched_ , yet oddly disquieted at the same time. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. And then, because it _needed_ to be said, he added, “I would never willingly leave you alone, Carver. I wouldn’t have done… _any_ of it…if I had known what it would mean for you.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have chosen your _Voice_ over _me_ ,” Carver said, dismissive.

But Aidan pushed forward again, catching his eyes and keeping them locked—serious and dark and full of intent. “Carver,” he said slowly, letting each word sink in. “You’re my brother. I would chose you over the _world_. I love him,” he added, quieter. “Even now that he’s gone, I love him. I will always love him. But I love you too, and I’ve loved you longer, and I wouldn’t leave you alone in this world for anything. Not _even_ my Voice.”

“Oh fuck you,” Carver said, openly crying. He dashed at his tears as if angry, but Aidan could read his temperamental brother’s moods as easily as a lightning storm and he knew—he _knew_ —that Carver was deeply touched. “You and your stupid heroic speeches. That’s one thing I didn’t miss while you were…away. All that bloody earnest empathy just… Shut up and stop smiling at me,” he added, reaching blindly for something to throw at Aidan’s head.

Aidan ducked the dish rag with a watery laugh of his own. “Missed,” he teased. “You always did have the worst aim.”

“Well you have the worst _face_ ,” Carver said, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Aidan said, “ _your butt_.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Aidan grinned. “ _Your butt_ doesn’t make any sense!”

Carver twisted around with a laughing-growl, reaching for something else to throw, when the sound of a door slamming open startled them both. He rose, reaching reflexively for his sword, other hand thrusting out as if to herd Aidan back. “I,” Carver began—then _tensed_ , eyes widening. “Fuck, _Anders._ He’ll bloody lose his mind if you’re not there.”

“He was asleep,” Aidan began, standing as Carver charged out of the kitchen. “I didn’t want to—”

“I know!” Carver called back, followed by a muffled, “Anders, wait, Anders, he’s okay, Anders…for Andraste’s sake, Anders, calm the fuck down!”

Aidan hurried after him, stumbling into the great hall with its empty fireplace lit by wan starlight. Anders was racing down the steps even as Carver vaulted up; cracks of blue-white fire licked across his skin, Justice bursting at the seams.

“ ** _Where_** ,” Anders began in a booming voice, weakened legs starting to give out; Carver caught him by the elbow before he could pitch himself down the steps. Up on the landing, another door opened. “ ** _Where has he been taken?_** ” he demanded, turning his glowing-eyed glare on Carver. Then: ** _“Where did YOU take him?_** ”

“ _Me?_ ” Carver jerked back as if slapped, brows slamming together. There was a teetering second where a calming presence could have stepped in to stop the brewing fight, but Carver said, “Oh, you—” Without warning, he pressed his palms over Anders’ heart and _shoved._

It was just hard enough to send Anders-Justice fumbling down onto his rump, but the crackle of pure, furious energy had the whole room tasting of ozone. Anders-Justice glared up at Carver—whose cheeks were pinked with wounded fury—but before he could say anything to make the situation worse, a sharp voice suddenly cried:

“Oh, _Aidan!_ It _is_ you!”

Several things happened at once:

Justice faded away in a snap of blue-white fire, leaving Anders flustered and staring down the steps at Aidan.

Merrill raced from her room and _leapt_ over the bannister, dropping lightly to the ground below before flinging herself bodily into Aidan’s startled arms.

_Trouble_ came racing out of his room, already howling and very nearly bowling Anders over as he tried to rise to his feet.

And Carver glowered as Anders struggled up—then very deliberately turned his back and stalked to the landing below.

Aidan winced, hugging Merrill back, fighting now to get knocked on his ass by Trouble as he watched the palpable tension between Carver and Anders when, before, there had been nothing but a  growing… _something_. Something real and raw and beautiful in the wake of Bethany’s loss. Something that made his heart hurt to see the possible end of.

_Oh Anders,_ he thought as the other man stumbled down the steps, completely ignoring one Hawke for the other. _What are you doing?_

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Anders gasped, falling against Aidan with a broken-sounding laugh. He was trembling so hard he nearly sent the three of them toppling over—four, if Aidan counted Trouble, who was threading through their legs with bright, happy barks. “You’re, you’re, you’re _awake_. You’re finally awake!”

“I told you!” Merrill said, grinning wide and bright. “Oh, I _told_ you he would be all right. All he had to do was find the right demon and—”

His head was spinning. “No,” Aidan said, searching for an anchor in the confusing blur of impressions. Everything seemed to be happening too fast for him to keep up, and it was as if he was stuck in the Fade again, trying desperately to piece together a barrage of sensation and fear into shapes his whirling mind could comprehend. “No, Merrill, no demons. Feynriel— I— There were no demons.”

“Oh!” She pulled back, visibly startled. Her usual ponytails and braids were out for the night, leaving her hair wild as a bramble about a pale face. “You will have to tell us how you escaped, Hawke; the demons were what brought _me_ back.”

“I,” Aidan began, baffled. What the void did she mean by that?

But before he could even take breath to ask, Anders was elbowing Merrill aside and cupping his face in long-fingered hands, so close he took up all of Aidan’s vision—the entire world. “You came back,” he said, unchecked tears streaming down his sunken cheeks—and _kissed_ him as if he had every right.

Aidan stiffened instinctively. Trouble gave a low growl. And several feet away, visible out of the corner of Aidan’s eyes, Carver went very, very still—then turned on his heel and stalked back into the kitchen.

Anders’ lips were warm and chapped; his fingers stroked against Aidan’s cheeks. His wrists were frail when Aidan lightly grasped them, and it didn’t take much to jerk away. The _hope_ in those golden-brown eyes made his whole body ache. “Anders,” he said, low. _Gentle_. “That isn’t the kind of love we share. You know it isn’t.”

“But he’s gone,” Anders said. “He _left_ you.”

Aidan closed his eyes against the soul-deep flash of pain. He was barely aware of Merrill tip-toeing out into the kitchen, tugging Trouble along with her. So. Fenris was gone. “Even so,” he said.

Anders pressed closer again, and though he didn’t try to kiss him, his breath was warm against Aidan’s cheeks. _Familiar_. How many nights had Anders slept in his bed, watching over him? How many hours had passed with this man curled protectively around his unconscious body? More, surely, than he’d ever spent close to Fenris. Of course, of _course_ his scent would be familiar. But it still felt _wrong_ , shivering beneath Aidan’s skin. “He’s gone,” Anders repeated, gently. “And Bethany’s gone. We’re both broken, Aidan—but we don’t have to be. There’s a spark; I know you feel it.”

“Anders,” he began, finally looking up to meet his eyes. He felt so fucking _tired_ all of a sudden, his draining mana scraped low and raw.

“You found me in the Fade for a reason,” Anders continued. “You told me yourself. Before you found _him_ , you came to _me_. And it’s still there between us. It’s what let me keep hold of you when _he_ almost killed you.”

Aidan wished he had the strength to get through to him, but he could sense the exhaustion buzzing inside Anders’ head as surely as it was swarming in his own—there’d be no reasoning for either of them tonight. Maybe not for some time, until Anders had managed to step down from high alert and accepted deep in his bones that he no longer needed to fight to keep Aidan from slipping away. “I’m sorry, brother,” he said quietly, adding just a touch of emphasis on the last word. He caught Anders by the back of his neck and pulled him close for a kiss—on his brow, lips pressing soft and chaste as Anders let out a shuddery, heaving sigh.

Then he stepped away.

“We’ll sort things out in the morning,” Aidan said with finality, smiling to soften the blow. “For now, let’s join the others in the kitchen, yeah? I can tell you all about Feynriel and you can fill me in on what I’ve missed. Nothing will seem quite so dreary over coffee and bacon.”

“Nothing can seem quite so dreary when you’re around,” Anders said, keeping stubbornly close. Then, as they headed toward the kitchen where the others waited, Anders added in a so-low-he-could-pretend-to-ignore-it voice: “I love you.”

Aidan let out a shaken breath and swallowed his retort as they crossed the threshold to see Merrill perched on the kitchen table and _Carver_ already frying up food like the mother hen he was, thinking: _Yes. But not the way you think you mean it._

And oh, he was so afraid that by the time Anders realized his mistake, he may have already lost the second Hawke in his life. In the face of that emptiness where Fenris had been—yawning and dark and terrible inside him—he couldn’t bear the thought of his brother being so close to true happiness…and losing it because of _him_.

_I’ll find a way to fix this_ , Aidan told himself, letting Anders usher him into a chair as Merrill chirped something about sending Orana for Varric and the others. _I won’t rest until it’s right again._

And, so quiet beneath the buzz of his thoughts that he could push it aside unremarked:

_Fenris, come back to me._


	46. Carver

He felt anxious and unsettled. Off-balance. Irate. He felt…

He felt like a new mother, watching as her child took its first steps—breath held and heart in her throat and hands ready to reach out at the first threat of a wobble and, and, and _bloody fucking ridiculous_ because Aidan was hardly an infant and he wasn’t Carver’s responsibility anyway. Carver really needed to get a grip.

Or a life.

A life that _wasn’t_ an absolute bloody mess.

Carver turned away from the sight of Aidan laughing with his friends. They were sitting around the Amell library, ringed like planets about Aidan’s brilliant sun. Isabela _smiling_ for the first time in weeks, Merrill perched by her side, Varric in his element as he told stories and poured wine, Aveline and Donnic sharing a loveseat and looking quietly content. Even Sebastian had come, gleaming in his pristine armor, watching every move Aidan made as if he felt even a quarter of the anxious love that still rose like bile in Carver’s throat.

What a bloody useless thing _caring_ about someone else was; it just made everything burn.

He let out an uneven huff of air. Standing just a few feet away, Anders cast him an understanding look. “It’s strange,” he agreed, voice pitched low. “Sharing him again.”

“That isn’t what I was thinking,” Carver lied. He kept his gaze firmly away from Anders, hating the awkward prickliness between them, but unwilling to wave the white flag just yet. Not while Anders-as-Justice’s words still stuck like burrs beneath his skin. “They’re just going to talk him into doing something stupid, that’s all.”

“To be fair,” Anders said, “at least half the time, it’s Aidan talking _us_ into something stupid.”

“Yes,” Carver said acidly, “because you’re always so good about being _fair._ ”

He looked away before he could catch Anders’ hurt look, stomach twisting into hard, unhappy shapes. He needed to get over this. Aidan had been on his feet again for a little over a week and things were _finally_ starting to normalize. The first two nights had been strained— _bloody awful_ —with Anders pushed gently out of Aidan’s bed and Carver too nervous to go back to the Gallows until nearly dawn. Each night, after Aidan shut the door on both of them, Anders would come creeping down the steps like a kicked dog to sit by the dying fire with Carver. Neither spoke to break the long, terrible silence. Neither addressed the yawning distance between them as they sat through the witching hour, half-waiting for Trouble’s mournful howls.

…howls that never came. Every morning Aidan woke, still himself, still alive, and Carver breathed for the first time in hours.

As the week passed and Aidan showed no signs of relapsing, Carver no longer felt the urge to sit vigil with Anders. He _slept_ instead, willing himself to soak in the relief that was sure to come eventually. Aidan was back; Aidan was _alive_. Carver and Anders could step back from high alert and be a real person again.

Any day now.

_Any_ day. Really.

“Carver,” Anders began, voice pitched low. _Wobbling_ a bit, the way it always got when he knew he’d crossed some line, and fuck, Carver didn’t want to forgive him yet. It felt good to be angry, and Anders was _such_ a convenient target for his impotent rage. “I wanted to… I feel like I need to, ah, apologize. For how I—”

_Stop. Maker, please stop._

Varric, bless him, provided a perfect distraction from whatever uncomfortable confession Anders felt ready to make, as always. “I don’t see any reason why you can’t get back in the field, Hawke,” he was saying. “I shit you not, it’s been boring without you. Besides, that book isn’t going to write itself.”

Carver went still. At his shoulder, Anders straightened with a sharp noise of protest, apology forgotten.

Aidan? Aidan just grinned, because of bloody course he did. “Well, I’d hate for your book to go unfinished,” he said. “What did you have in mind? Have you heard of any interesting jobs lately?”

“Is that a good idea, Hawke?” Aveline said, leaning forward to rest her weight on one arm. It was a relief to know there was at least one adult in the room, even if Isabela immediately sighed and rolled her eyes toward Merrill—as if Aveline were being ridiculous to even _suggest_ caution in the wake of Aidan’s near-death. “I thought you weren’t able to access your magic.”

“It’s a bloody _terrible_ —” Anders began, surging forward, but Carver grabbed his arm and shot him a fierce look, quieting the protest. Aidan… Aidan didn’t take well to being fussed over, and the two of them had already pushed him nearly too far. If either of them protested now, in front of everyone, there was a good chance he’d laugh it off before running off to do something monumentally _stupid,_ just to prove he was alive. Bethany had been the same way.

Come to think of it, Mother and Father had been stubbornly independent too. Even Trouble could be bullish. His entire family was made up of stubborn idiots who refused to take their own safety seriously. No wonder Carver often felt as if he were boxing the wind trying to keep them safe.

“—a problem,” Aidan was saying with a slight frown.

“Oh, _balls_ ,” Isabela sighed. “There’s got to be some kind of action you can get in on. It’s all been so _boring_ without you.”

Sebastian made a thoughtful noise. “There are new requests on the Chantry board,” he offered.

“Remind me to spit in his soup later,” Anders muttered beneath his breath, nearly startling Carver into a laugh. He thinned his lips against the impulse, balling his hands into fists at his sides and doing his best to ignore the older man.

“I don’t want to be the weak link if we go out again,” Aidan said, looking between his friends with a frown between his brows. “If I can’t handle myself, then you’ll be distracted keeping an eye on me; I don’t want to be responsible for getting you killed.”

Carver relaxed; maybe common sense would win out after all.

Varric waved his hand. “That won’t be a problem, Hawke. Rivaini and I’ve basically taught you everything you need to know. Sure, you learned it to trick Templars into ignoring the odd fireball or two, but with a few adjustments, you could switch out your staff for something a little pointier. Easy as pie.”

Carver tensed again; maybe common sense would go hang, as usual. Even Aveline looked as if she were relenting, smile spreading across her freckled face as she leaned back against the settee and listened to Varric and Isabela toss around strategies Aidan could employ in a fight.

_Please_ , Carver thought, silently urging his brother to be cautious with his own life for once, to take the safe route. _Please, please don’t do this._

Anders’ shoulder brushed lightly against Carver’s as he edged closer. He was so twisted up with worry over Aidan that, for once, Carver barely even noticed the prickle of awareness. “I understand why you don’t want us to say anything, but… We have to do _something_. He isn’t ready,” Anders murmured, head tipped close.

Carver didn’t turn his head. “You’re certain?” he asked, working to keep his expression impassive. It was a skill he’d learned at the Circle— _funny_ , he sometimes thought, that after a lifetime of wearing his raw heart on his sleeve, all it took was one paranoid, power-mad Knight Commander and he’d finally learn to lie.

Anders shifted closer still, shoulder pressed intimately against his. Deliberate? Possibly. “Positive. He’ll try to use his magic, even if he thinks he won’t. It’s ingrained—even when you _know_ it’s beyond your grasp, every instinct is screaming at you to try. There’s no arguing with that gut-deep _drive_ to grasp for mana. It doesn’t matter how hard it hurts hitting that invisible wall; we’re compelled to do it over and over and over again.”

Finally— _finally_ —Carver looked at him, taking in the recent salt-and-pepper of his scruff, the shadows that were only now beginning to lighten beneath his eyes. “You knew someone like this?” he murmured.

Anders met his eyes. Warm toffee-brown, focusing—focusing on _him_ —for what felt like the first time in months. Carver was all too once aware of just how close they were standing, arms brushing from shoulders to knuckle every time they moved. He could smell elfroot and ink and the peppermints Anders liked to nick from the kitchen. He could feel the hot gust of Anders’ breath against his cheeks. His lips.

Maker, he needed to move away.

He didn’t.

He’d always been self-destructive like that.

“More than a few.” Anders’ voice was pitched low, a little rough. From their proximity or something else? _Idiot._ He shouldn’t even be thinking this way. “I’ve experienced it more than a few times myself, too. Being Silenced isn’t quite like what Aidan is going through, but…”

He looked away again, wetting his lips, and Carver finally stepped aside—gone cold at the unexpected reminder of his own Templar abilities. Funny how often he could forget who he was supposed to be now.

“But it’s close enough,” Anders finished after an awkward pause. “Aidan’ll reach for his mana because he won’t be able to help himself, and that will just make it drain all the faster. It could kill him, or worse, if Merrill or I aren’t there to help.”

Across the library, Isabela laughed at something Varric said, one arm flinging dramatically over Aidan’s shoulders. Aidan smiled with them, as wide and bright as ever…but there was a strain about his eyes—a weary sadness that hadn’t been there in so many years.

Not since the last time Fenris had almost broken him.

Maker, this sick fear was all just too bloody familiar. Carver crossed his arms to hide a shudder at the waterfall of memory:

Aidan covered in brand new scars, curled silent and unresponsive around his pillow. Mother asleep for hours and hours, hair drifting like new-fallen snow about her pillow as tears tracked down increasingly lined cheeks, crying out for Father in her dreams. Bethany sitting by the window, watching over her wounded brother—and later, her devastated mother—in grieving, desperate silence. The Hawke family trapped in amber, lost, and Carver caught as always on the outside of that grief, determined to fight his way through, but uncertain how.

And now…what? Aidan was back, but his was a precarious peace. If Anders was right and he strained himself too hard reaching for his mana, he could go tumbling back into that darkness. But if they tried to stop Aidan from _living_ , he could just as easily slip into that hollow shell he’d once inhabited—a ghost passing silent as death through Carver’s life, with Anders taking the place Bethany had once claimed. Wan, watching, wracked with his own silent pain.

It could all happen _again_ , and Carver would be trapped on the outside as always, left alone to try to keep going despite the odds. Hurting and angry and growing more and more bitter by the day, but unable to lash out at the wounded men in his life. Unable to save them, and unable to hate them for making him feel so helpless.

Unable to do bloody anything at all.

“I won’t go through it again,” Carver suddenly said.

“Carver?”

He turned back to Anders, _fierce_. “I won’t go through it again,” he repeated. “I bloody _refuse._ There’s a better way—a way that won’t wreck either of you two idiots. I won’t let them push him past his limits, but I won’t let the two of you shut down again either. I won’t let _you_ ,” this time, he jabbed a finger at Anders, “martyr yourself because you’re convinced you know how to protect him. You don’t. Fuck, look at you. You can barely take care of yourself.”

Anders bristled. “Carver, I—”

“ _No_ ,” Carver snapped, not letting him continue. He knew where that particular fight went, and he wasn’t interested in traveling the well-worn path. “I told you—I’m _done_ watching the people I love grind themselves into dust when there’s a perfectly simple solution.”

“…love?” Anders echoed, startled, so quiet Carver could easily ignore him.

“He wants to get out there again? He needs it? _Fine_. But it won’t be shaking down Tal-Vashoth along the coast or battling bloody demons on Sundermount.” Carver gestured sharply toward Aidan and his friends, angling away from Anders so he could ignore the shocked awareness clear as day on his angular face. “If Aidan needs adventure, then he can bloody well do it the smart way, with _us_ at his side: me to watch his stupid back, and you to shove mana into him if he overextends himself.”

Anders made a sputtering noise; Carver ignored that, too.

“There’s a group ready to leave the Circle,” Carver said, grimly plotting next steps and what would have to be done. There was a part of him that mourned the loss of this thing that had been his-and-Anders alone for so long…

But then, he was _the other Hawke,_ wasn’t he? It was inevitable Aidan would become the hero of this corner of Kirkwall too; he may as well cede ground gracefully and use this as a chance to keep his brother _safe._

“I can arrange for a ship to be waiting. I think,” Carver added, finally turning his head to meet Anders’ eyes; the shock of connection was far, far easier to ignore now that he had the fire of purpose lighting the way, “it’s finally time to let Aidan in on the mage underground…don’t you?”


	47. Fenris

He stood perched on the edge of the world, a bird ready to take flight.

 _Ridiculous_. Ridiculous, fanciful claptrap, and yet Fenris couldn’t shake the feeling that if he only stepped off the craggy cliff face, he’d soar straight into the storm instead of crashing to the waves below. The buffeting winds would catch him, lift him…take him back to Kirkwall?

Even _more_ ridiculous, more fanciful. There was nothing left in Kirkwall for him. There was only memory, and regret, and self-recrimination and… And _pain_ , lancing deep, whenever he closed his eyes and remembered the city of chains. Whenever he felt the ghost of Aidan Hawke flicker at the edges of his mind.

He tried to shut down that line of thinking the way he always did, pulling up another wall of denial; another layer of armor. If he let himself dwell for more than a few seconds at a time, he wouldn’t be able to stand beneath the onslaught. And yet even knowing that, each evening Fenris found himself turning north as if responding to a tug in his blood. As if—

 _Sensing him_.

And that, after all, was the biggest fairy story of all.

He turned away from the Waking Sea, his own thoughts as turbulent as the crashing waves, and looked back at the manor house. It rested a quarter-mile from the cliffside like the corpse of an old dragon—eaves sagging, most windows shuttered, roof a patchwork of shingles and broken tile. The very next wind could blow it into the sea, and good riddance. As far as Fenris could tell, the old mausoleum had only ever managed to produce one thing worth anything…and even then, the likelihood of a _Trevelyan_ clawing his way out of his cursed little life seemed dubious at best.

This wasn’t the sort of place where men came to dream; this was the place where dreams came to die. _Fitting_ , he thought, stomach tightening at his own bitterness.

Lightning forked, silhouetting the decaying house—and the figure striding across the lawn. Fenris could just make out the rough shape of his employer, hilt of his greatsword rising over one shoulder. He’d left the battered old mail jerkin behind, Fenris noted, though the dark leathers were hardly any better. They were worn thin in more places than they covered, barely fitting the growing bulk of the awkwardly tall lad. Two more years, and they’d be stretched to the point of uselessness.

 _Though it is a wonder_ , Fenris thought with a slight curl of his lip, _that Cassius Trevelyan bothers to feed and clothe the boy at all_.

Taran stopped a few paces away, longish caramel-colored bangs falling into a face that hadn’t fully lost the soft round cheeks of boyhood. He had the promise of future handsomeness in that face, the promise of future strength in the sheer (and ever-growing) width of his shoulders…but it was his warm brown eyes that had kept Fenris in one place for the first time since leaving Kirkwall. _Kind_ eyes. _Hopeful_ eyes. The eyes of a boy who tried to see the best in the world—and who would inevitably be crushed beneath its feet someday.

Maybe, Fenris sometimes mused, he’d chosen to stay as long as he had because this boy’s future was just as bleak as his own. Misery, after all, loved company.

Though anyone would be hard-pressed to call Taran Trevelyan _miserable._ His lips curved into a crooked smile, twin dimples flashing against tanned cheeks. “You’re silently cursing someone again,” he teased. “What has Cassius done this time?”

“Nothing,” Fenris said. He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the distant rumble of thunder, the undeniable…thing…he felt every time the white-capped waves crashed below. “Maybe I am scowling because of _you_.”

Taran shrugged a philosophical shoulder. “I probably deserve it, then,” he said—and grinned cheerily. So very young and foolish and all but forgotten by the wider world. So… _sweet_ , and he didn’t have Aidan’s eyes, but he had his smile.

Maybe that was the real reason Fenris stayed in Ostwick, despite knowing that Taran could do very little to protect him should Denarius finally come. Maybe he was content to stay in this benighted place because it allowed him to see ghosts wherever he went. Or maybe Aidan had finally rubbed off on him ( _bonded_ , Fenris thought, the word like a whip crack in his mind. _We were bonded; that had to have changed me_ ) and he’d taken to adopting strays.

Maybe he couldn’t bear to leave the Marches or _maybe_ he was just lonely. Maybe he’d grown too used to filled silences and warm smiles.

 _Pathetic_. Maker, he was such a fool—brooding and morose, though he’d barely touched a drink today, preparing for this night as if he gave two shits about Taran’s _cause_.

“Fenris,” Taran said quietly, catching Fenris’s eyes. There was a concerned frown between his brows now, and the boy was such a reckless _child_ that Fenris actually felt a pang of regret for adding to his worries. Not even Merrill’s limpid green gaze had ever made him care one way or the other about her feelings; he should write Aveline and tell her about Taran. Perhaps she could weaponzie the boy and _guilt_ criminals into forsaking their lives of crime.

Fenris let out a harsh breath. On second thought, maybe he’d had more to drink than he realized. His thoughts were certainly scattered enough. “Well?” he demanded, gesturing sharply toward the now-familiar rocky path down the sheer cliffface. “Your _charges_ will be arriving soon. You should be there to greet them.”

Taran stepped closer, brows drawing tighter together. Fenris had to actively look away. “It’s all right if you don’t want to come tonight,” he said— _gently_ , as if Fenris were the child. “I can handle it just fine myself.”

“No,” he snapped. “You pay me to guard you, so I will guard you.” It had nothing to do with the fact that every mage smuggled out of Kirkwall reminded him of the one he couldn’t save. The one he—

 _Stop_.

It was intolerable feeling that quietly sympathetic gaze on him. Intolerable and hateful and centering and so _very_ needed. All these weeks since the long-forgotten child of Trevelyan House had found him drunk and near-to-breaking on the shore, and it was that uncomfortable, familiar kindness that kept him from shattering at last.

 _That. That_ was why he stayed.

Lightning flashed again, followed by a rumble of thunder. The brief light illuminated the distant ship and what looked to be two longboats fighting their way to shore.

“Come,” Fenris snapped, jerking his chin for Taran to go first. The way down to the beach was steep and treacherous, and though Taran had been traversing it since he was able to walk, it soothed some unacknowledged protective instinct in Fenris to move at his heels and make certain he didn’t topple to his death on the rocks below.

Taran hesitated one final moment, studying Fenris’s face, before nodding and moving to the hidden pathway. He began picking his way down gingerly; Fenris followed a few steps behind, using each flicker of lightning to mark his way.

The wind blew wild. The waves crashed. Rain broke just as they reached the midway point, drenching him to the bone in seconds. Fenris set his jaw and grimly focused on the beach and the mostly-hidden mouth of a cave in the distance. It was cleverly concealed by jutting rock and artifice. With the way the treacherous coast bent, the way the shoals kept most other ships at bay, it was incredibly difficult to locate and even harder to access. Where better to smuggle a group of runaway mages?

Thunder rumbled again, loud as a dragon’s roar. The boats were much closer now, cutting through the wildly tossing waves with the aid of magic. He could _feel_ it in his bones—in the lyrium etched into his skin—and Fenris set his jaw against the reflexive recoil and reminded himself that this was the repentance he had chosen.

 _For Aidan_. Maker, yes; for Aidan. And perhaps for himself as well.

Taran hopped down the last pile of rubble as nimble as a mountain goat, and turned to subtly (yet not subtly enough; the boy still couldn’t seem to keep anything off his open young face) watch over Fenris as he followed. Fenris wanted to scoff, but the obvious show of concern was more touching than he was willing to let on.

“All good, then?” Taran asked when Fenris dropped to the sand next to him.

“Focus on the task,” Fenris snapped.

Taran laughed, pushing back soaked hair. “So I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He tipped his head toward where the small boats were just nearing shore. “C’mon,” Taran added, “let’s welcome our guests to Ostwick.”

Fenris followed the boy a few steps back, eyeing the bedraggled group. Searching first, as ever, for any sign of Denarius or a trap. Then for any danger he may need to shield his charge from. And finally, of course, for any sign of Anders—because who else in Kirkwall would be mad enough to spearhead a mage underground?

There was no sign of any of those things—just a small knot of miserable-looking men and women, soaked through and frightened to the bone.

“It’s okay,” Taran was saying, wading hip-deep in the surf and helping to pull the boats to shore. “You’ve made it. You’re safe.”

Some of them were crying; some of them always were. A couple couldn’t wait to be towed to land—they tumbled out of the boat with a splash, soaked Circle robes dragging around them as they pushed for shore. One of the mages laughed—a nervous, near-hysterical sound—while another began praying, _loudly_.

“Thank the Maker when you’re not about to be washed back out to sea,” Fenris grumbled, grabbing a young man’s arm as he slipped and nearly fell beneath a wave. Fenris hastened him toward the safety of the shore with a muffled grunt, ignoring the way his heart constricted at the dark tangle of curls that fell into the boy’s eyes. He looked so much like—

_Stop. This._

It took longer than he liked to corral the runaway mages toward the waiting cave. Taran stayed back to pay the oarsman what little he could afford while Fenris led the way past jagged rock into the safety of the deep cavern. Over the years, Taran had taken pains to disguise just how far back the cave system went, enlisting the help of mages to raise rock walls and artfully collapse parts of the ceiling. To anyone who didn’t know the trick of it, the cave looked to be crumbled past salvation—the flock of mages (little more than _children,_ most of them) audibly gasped when Fenris pressed a hidden lever to open a trick door and led the way deep into weighty darkness.

The ceilings were high and polished, as was the floor—worn smooth by magic and patience and time. Small hanging lanterns swung at even internals, and Fenris flicked them on as he led the way, bathing the cavern bit by bit in warm light. Toward the very back of the huge space, a sanctuary had been built: a makeshift home that served as the first waystation in a sprawling network of bleeding hearts like Anders and Taran.

Walls had been constructed, cutting the echoing space into a central courtyard of sorts with a large bonfire just waiting for the first spark. Smaller rooms branched off from there like spokes of a wheel, many containing simple mattresses with clean bedding, chamber pots, battered tin hip-baths, and dressers filled with simple clothes in a variety of sizes. Much of it had been lifted (he knew now from experience) from neighbor’s trash piles—the excesses of the Marchers repurposed and given new life by one remarkably resourceful boy.

“Someone light that,” Fenris said, pointing. “Claim a room as you will. Bathe. If the clothing you find doesn’t suit, check other rooms—there is more.”

He started to turn away—it wasn’t _his_ cause; he saw no need to give more of himself than necessary—but his eyes caught on the dark-haired boy again. He was young, no more than a year or two older than Taran himself, and his eyes were green, not grey. And yet looking at him, something small and quiet broke again inside Fenris—some figment of unimaginable loss, shattering like a pane of glass. (Like a breaking heart.)

This boy could have so easily been Aidan, if circumstances had been different.

Chest tight with the thought, Fenris turned back to the shell-shocked mages. “Are any of you injured?” he demanded, voice sharp with echoing pain. He ignored it; he’d gotten so good at repressing.

One of them—a girl—slowly raised her hand. “A few of us got a little banged up leaving Kirkwall,” she explained, voice quavering. She was visibly frightened of him. “We healed the worst of it, but only a couple of us are any good with healing magic, so anything not serious had to be left for later.”

“What happened?” Fenris demanded.

“What he means is,” Taran interrupted as he slipped into the sanctuary from behind him, “there is plenty of elfroot in the cupboard.” He set aside his sword in an overly showy way—telegraphing his willing disarment before the nervous mages in a way that still drove Fenris mad—and moved toward the main group. “Also, while we take care of that, yes…what happened? Was it Templars?”

“Not Templars, thank the Maker,” an older man piped up. The injured were settling about an already merrily-roaring fire while he and a gray-haired woman began gathering the elfroot. “Bandits of some sort. Our guide called them the Dog Lords.”

Fenris curled his lip. There was no ridding Kirkwall of its vermin.

“We barely made it out alive,” another mage took up the story. “We wouldn’t have if Anders and the Hawkes weren’t there to watch over us.”

Fenris froze.

“Hush!” the older woman hissed. “You know we aren’t to spread their names.”

Hawkes. _Hawkes_.

It had to be a mistake. A slip of the tongue. A…

“But these men are our friends,” the girl protested. No one seemed aware that Fenris was shattering inside—a volcano threatening to erupt at any moment. His heart raced in his chest and he, he couldn’t breathe, he— It was _impossible_. “It’s safe here with them.”

“I’m afraid it’s better,” Taran said quietly, sitting next to a boy with visible bruises already forming across his wan face, “to assume it’s not safe anywhere. At least for now. We—” He cut off when he glanced at Fenris, suddenly jerking to his feet. Light and shadow played off his young face in warm reds and blues and—

Fenris clenched his fist, trembling, lyrium lighting up in fitful bursts as he struggled to control himself. Taran was stumbling over shocked mages to reach him; all the others were pulling away as if afraid he might _explode_. Maker, he felt like he could, all the diligently repressed emotion rising up up up inside of him. He couldn’t contain it. He wanted to bare his teeth and howl.

 _Hawkes_. The girl had said _Hawkes_ , and even though he knew she must have meant Carver—void, maybe even Carver and Leandra—he couldn’t control the wild, racing _hope_ that would be the death of him. _Hawkes. Hawkes_.

“Fenris,” Taran said, grasping his elbow. He sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away when Fenris grabbed instinctively for his throat; blue fire lit those warm eyes, and Fenris saw himself reflected back there, grimacing like a madman. Maker. He _felt_ mad. He felt— “Fenris,” Taran said again. He could feel the way the words were shaped in the boy’s throat against his tight grip. “What can I do to help?”

 _You cannot. No one can_. But Taran’s question got through to him somehow and Fenris let go, stumbling back a step. It took everything he had to grapple control of his markings, but he _did_ , wrestling his body into momentary quiescence as he turned to stare down the shocked-pale girl. She was cringing back against her friends at whatever she saw in his eyes, a spark of flame dancing between her trembling fingers—ready to defend herself against the mad dog about to rip open her throat.

Fenris wet his lips, ignoring Taran’s palpable concern, and said: “The Hawkes. There was one? Carver?”

The girl flinched, and he very nearly growled. He could feel his powers lunging at the leash. He wanted to punch his fist through her chest and _force_ her to answer. “Speak!” Fenris snapped. She gave a tremulous sob.

“ _Fenris_ ,” Taran said again—this time with an unexpected commanding snap to his tone. Fenris glanced at him reflexively, and the kindness, the _empathy_ , was still there, but it was underlain by pure steel. _Stop_ , his steady gaze seemed to say, _or I wll be forced to stop you._

One of the runaway mages whispered a prayer; another was crying. He realized, suddenly, the full extent of how this must seem—him, standing between them and the exit, something crazed in his eyes. The promise of a gentle freedom shattered as the storm raged just outside. (As the storm raged inside him, howling through his blood and bones.)

Fenris gave a faint shake of his head and Taran nodded, reading the wordless plea. He gripped Fenris’s shoulder this time, but Fenris didn’t pull away from the touch; if anything, he pushed closer, needing that grounding influence. The way Aidan used to take all the sharp pieces of him and refine them into something that could work in a team, could sit around a table at the Hanged Man and chuff a laugh at Varric’s jokes, could gentle despite a life that had honed him to a sharp edge.

Whatever… _thing_ Aidan had, whatever presence that made him able to take a band of outcasts and misfits and make them fit together into a family, made them want to follow him to the ends of the earth and back—Taran, it seemed, had that too. And right now, Fenris couldn’t have been more grateful to let the young man lead.

“All right,” Taran said quietly, just between them. Then, hand still on Fenris’s shoulder, he looked at the girl and offered a reassuring smile. “It’s all right. Let’s start from the beginning, okay? Can you tell us exactly how you were rescued and by whom?”

She was shaking her head, still trembling like a leaf, but Fenris could actually see the way she thawed at Taran’s low voice. “I-I,” she began—then cut her gaze toward Fenris.

“Don’t worry about Fenris,” Taran said, subtly stepping between them. “It’s all right; no one here is going to hurt you. I _promise_ you that.”

The older man set a hand on her shoulder. The spark dancing between her fingertips died and she nodded. “We’d been meeting in secret with our—with Ser Carver.” She glanced at the older woman, who nodded. “He’s a Templar in the Circle, but…but a good one. He watches out over us, and gets between us and the worst of the lot. He’s the one who told us about the underground, and who snuck us out when the time came.”

This was taking too long; he didn’t want the whole tale. Fenris tensed up, beginning to push forward, but Taran sightlessly held out his hand…and Fenris relaxed back. Following his lead.

“There were small boats waiting to sneak us from the Gallows to the Docks and into Darktown. That’s where we met the others. Anders, and the other Hawke.” His heart stopped; he didn’t dare to breathe. To hope. “They led us deep into Darktown, through the sewers. We were attacked there by those Dog Lords, but the three of them fought them off. We helped,” she added, lifting her chin a little defiantly.

“The other Hawke,” Fenris said, and all eyes snapped to him. “Her name—she was Leandra?” It was the only thing that made sense. Leandra Hawke was aging, but she was still strong, and fierce, and a true believer in the cause.

The girl bit her lip, and didn’t answer.

 _She didn’t answer_.

Just as he could feel the rage and pain building inside him again—just as he sensed Taran tensing before him, ready to act—the dark, curly-haired boy spoke up. “No ser,” he said, Kirkwall accent strong. “His name was Aidan.”

Fenris stumbled back as if struck.

“Aidan Hawke,” the boy continued. “He looked sickly, and I figured he wouldn’t be much use in a fight, but when the Dog Lords came he showed them what-for with that short staff of his. And his brother!  With that huge sword, cutting them down like they weren’t nothing. It was amazing.”

 _Aidan_.

_Aidan._

**_Aidan._ **

“Thank you,” Taran was saying, gripping Fenris’s arm—keeping him from falling. The whole world was spinning madly around him and he couldn’t seem to see which way was up. “Rest now, and eat, and take care of each other. My friend and I will be back if you need anything.” He gave a little tug, and Fenris stumbled after him unresisting: head full of cascading thoughts, emotions, fears, ululations.

Aidan. Hawke. Was _alive_?

“Just a few steps,” Taran murmured near his ear, leading Fenris unresisting through the cavern. Outside, the storm raged and thunder rumbled; inside, Fenris’s body lit with incandescent light. “Here. Sit before you fall. Maker, are you— What is going on?”

Fenris couldn’t focus enough to answer. He just shook his head wordlessly, then just kept _shaking_ , all over. Trembling like a leaf as he stared down at his hands and watched the lyrium fitfully charge. Maker, what if they were wrong? What if they’d been lying? What if he reached for Aidan and he wasn’t there? What if—

“I’m going to assume,” Taran said slowly, quietly, “that Aidan Hawke is the reason I found you like I did. The reason you’re so… Did he do anything to hurt you?”

That was enough to break Fenris out of his stupor. He looked up into those warm brown eyes, almost laughing at the thought—but he swallowed down the impulse, knowing he’d crack up, break apart, float away into nothing if he didn’t control himself. “ _No_ ,” he said roughly. The words felt like glass in his throat. “ _Venhedis_ , no. Never. He could never. There was—”

Fenris stopped, throat closing, and dug his nails hard into his palms. That bright pinprick of pain was enough to carry him through the unfolding revelation and into, “There _is_ nothing Aidan could do to hurt me.”

“All right,” Taran said. “So next steps will be getting you back to Kirkwall as quickly as possible.”

He had known the boy only a handful of weeks, had agreed to be his trainer, his guard, for want of something better to do with his miserable life. They had barely spent enough time together to even be called friends, and yet in that moment, when Taran cut so effortlessly through all the questions and swirling confusion and focused on the heart of the issue—getting Fenris back to _Aidan_ —he couldn’t possibly have loved him more.

“The oarsman said they would weather out the worst of the storm before heading back north,” Taran continued. “We can use the lanterns to signal them. When they send a boat to answer, you’ll return to the ship with them. Is there anything you need in the manor house?”

Fenris shook his head, dazed. Could it really be this simple?

Taran stood. “All right,” he said, as if it really _were_ that easy to set Fenris’s life back on track. To mend everything that had been broken inside him. “Then let’s do it. The quicker we can signal them, the quicker you’ll be on that ship ready to set sail.” He paused as Fenris stood, watching for some unknowable thing on his face. His lips curved into the softest of smiles. “I’ll miss you, you know.”

Fenris shook his head again, though not in denial. There was too much happening for him to sort through it all. Aidan, alive. Unless the boy had gotten it wrong, but…but it _felt_ right. It felt like what his heart had been trying to tell him for so long. Aidan, _alive_. And maybe he’d return to Kirkwall and Aidan would welcome him. And maybe he’d return to Kirkwall and Aidan would turn him away. Maybe he’d return and his once-friends would spit in his face. Maybe he’d return and still have nothing.

 _But Aidan was alive_.

The world just made more sense when Aidan Hawke was living in it.

“I,” Fenris said, knowing he should make more of this goodbye. Taran Trevelyan’s goodness had kept him going when he wanted nothing more than to drown. He owed him so much. “I will—”

“It’s okay,” Taran said, tipping his head toward the mouth of the cave. He was smiling again—beaming—dimples flashing dark against boyish cheeks. Such a shining bright thing surrounded by nothing but darkness. “I understand. Come on,” he added, layers of meaning adding untold depth to his words. “Let’s get you _home_.”


	48. Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Fair warning:** Anders unintentionally does something (with his magic) that he really shouldn't, without permission. I try to show in his POV why he does it, but I don't condone it.

He felt like he was drowning.

Anders sat in the great hall before a crackling fire, shivering despite its heat. Manuscript pages were spread out before him—an endless snowfall of work, passions, hopes. _Frustrations_ , poured in angry, slashing script across blank pages as this… _darkness_ inside of him crept deeper and deeper across his inner landscape like a killing frost.

 _Melodramatic ass_ , Carver may have mocked him even as he pushed a bowl of steaming soup into his hands with a look only the younger Hawke could have perfected: mingled worry and annoyance, sweet and sour all at once. Funny how warming that grumbling _care_ could be. Funny, how he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on it until it wasn’t there.

Anders curled his legs under him, shoving away the prickling…something. Some emotion that kept rising up inside him every time he let himself think about the Hawkes and the utter mess he’d made of his own life.

 _Focus_.

The thought carried strains of Justice, but that could have been his imagination. Justice had been so quiet since Aidan’s…since _Aidan_. Chilly. So often frozen inside him, and Anders couldn’t tell if it was the power he poured into Aidan to keep him alive or the wrenching anxiety that kept him on a knife’s edge for months or the overwhelming memory of losing Bethany that clawed its way out of the darkest part of him every time he so much as _thought_ of their close call, or—

Or—

 _Or_.

Or it didn’t really matter what had made Justice withdraw, did it? All that mattered was that Anders had done _something,_ and he needed to start fixing the messes he’d made before he lost everything that had ever mattered to him.

“Focus,” he breathed, pushing past the rising tide of panic—an all-too-familiar feeling now—and forced himself to narrow his focus back to the forgotten pages of his manifesto. He reached for the nearest page, eyes scanning the spidery script; waiting for the familiar words to spark a fire in him.

Nothing. He felt nothing. He may as well have been dead.

_Melodramatic ass._

Funny how hearing Carver’s voice in his head always brought a curving smile to his lips.

The sound of a creaking floorboard and the click of nails on wood drew Anders’s gaze up to the second floor landing. His heart gave a little lurch at the glimpse of dark curls and wan skin, and he turned back to instinctively gather his manifesto into a neatish pile as Aidan followed Trouble down the steps into the main room.

Anders watched him move out of the corner of his eyes, automatically assessing.

Pale. Aidan was still far, far too pale. Lavender shadows circled too-serious grey eyes, and he was thinner than Anders liked despite Carver’s very best efforts. Even more than that, there was a hushed, bruised quality to Aidan that always seemed to send Anders into high alert whenever they were together—and even that was a welcome reprieve from being alone in his own head, at least for as long as Aidan allowed it.

But that was just another example of how fucked up he’d let his life become, wasn’t it?

Anders cleared his throat. “Ho there, Aidan.”

Aidan drifted closer, Trouble panting happily at his side. “Ho there, Anders. Making any progress?”

Anders didn’t make a face at that, but it was a near thing. “Very little,” he admitted. He moved over to make room for Aidan, but Aidan stayed where he was. “Going somewhere?” It was possible his voice was too light, too casual, as if he were hiding an urge to invite himself along (which he absolutely was.)

Aidan tugged at the ends of his (too loose) green-and-brown tooled leathers. “I thought I’d take a walk,” he said. Then—because it was still _dangerous_ for him to go anywhere without Anders or Merrill—and oh how that must have stung, though Anders was selfishly grateful for the excuse to always know where Aidan was, settling the anxious fears that rose in him like choking bile—he added, “The Chantry and back. I won’t be far.”

Anders wet his lips. “Would you like company?”

“No,” Aidan said, gently enough, yet so quickly it was obvious he had expected the question.

Anders couldn’t say that he blamed him, and yet…it stung to be so firmly denied.

 _You are not his Voice,_ a quiet part of him whispered. _You will never be his Voice_.

 _No_ , another, rebellious part of him answered. _But with both of us so broken, the only hope we have of_ ever _being whole is with each other. Surely he has to see that?_

And _Maker’s tits_ , but he had to stop letting himself think that way. It wasn’t ever going to happen. He knew it, he _knew_ it—but he couldn’t _help_ it. Void take him, but it was like a sickness in his blood, the part of him that ached every minute of every day for Bethany echoing for the promise of some kind of relief. Of, of, of _reprieve_ from being so fucking alone in his own head.

He’d thought Justice would fill the barren corners of him, but all that had done was scour him from the inside out—change both of them irrevocably and leave him aching and vulnerable on the long stretch into his thirties with nothing but his work and his cause and his friends and this…this pale echo ringing between them every time he looked at Aidan.

Ringing and ringing and ringing, grown all the louder since Aidan had lost his own Voice, with Anders the starved dog whining at his heels with every peel.

 _Stop. It._ _You. Idiot_.

Anders looked down at the drift of papers—at his life’s work—and focused on breathing. On _not_ reaching out for Aidan, for Aidan’s bleeding mana, despite that voice screaming in the back of his mind that Aidan needed him, needed the infusion of power, needed the connection now that his bond was shattered, needed Anders now that Fenris was gone, needed, needed, needed—

“Anders,” Aidan said, drawing Anders’ gaze back to him. His face was lit by blue-white fire, cast from the cracks in Anders’ skin. Funny—even now, Justice felt frozen in his chest. “ _Stop_.”

Anders pulled away with a horrified jerk, dragging back control of his own powers. Maker, he needed to stop _doing_ that—needed to stop reaching for Aidan despite himself. The bad times were _over_. “I’m sorry,” he said, heartfelt and heartsick. “I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to…”

Aidan looked down at him with unreadable eyes, then sighed and rubbed at his forehead as if it ached. Despite the surge of new mana Anders had accidentally (and void take him, but he was doing it without even noticing now?) poured into him, he looked tired. “I know,” he said.

“It’s just,” Anders added, needing to explain himself, even if he couldn’t forgive himself, “it’s instinctual now after so long. I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

“I know,” Aidan said, quieter.

“We’re still connected somehow,” Anders went on, even though he knew—he _knew_ —he shouldn’t. “I think maybe it’s because you’re so like Bethany, I can sense you. We’re attuned to each other, even now. Especially now.” And because he’d never been able to quit while he was ahead, he added, hating himself for it, “Maybe if we—”

“Anders,” Aidan interrupted, some of that gentleness stripped away, leaving steel. “ _Stop_.”

Anders shut his mouth, looking down. Ashamed. It seemed like he was feeling that way around Aidan an awful lot lately. _This isn’t what he wants_ , Anders reminded himself for the hundredth time, curling his hands into impotent fists. Fuck, he wasn’t entirely sure _he_ wanted it either—and yet that yawning emptiness in him kept pressing him forward, drawn to the last sliver of a hope that he might be complete. _You need to stop; this isn’t you._

They remained in silence for several tense moments, the fire popping merrily in its hearth, Trouble whuffing as he curled protectively at Aidan’s feet. Shame and longing and denial and heartbreak between them.

Then, taking a deep breath, Aidan moved around to join him on the couch. It was a peace offering, and Anders ate it up eagerly, shoving his messy pile of papers aside and half-turning toward his friend. The dancing firelight caught against the stark hills and valleys of his beautiful face. “Where’s Carver?” Aidan asked.

Carver.

There was no hiding his guilty flinch. “I don’t know,” he said, knowing he _should_. It was nearing dinnertime. Carver was always here by this time, prodding Anders into packing up his work for the night and ‘go to get bloody presentable for once; you look like something Trouble dragged out of the bay.’ But ever since Aidan had woken— _ever since I became an utter ass_ , the most brutally truthful part of him whispered—Carver had been running later and later, as if…avoiding him.

The absence was sharply felt. It…hurt, as much as almost losing Aidan had hurt. (Though even he couldn’t say how that was possible. Aidan echoed inside him as a potential Voice now that his was gone. Carver was just _Carver_. He had none of the magic, none of the possibility, none of the metaphysical draw—and yet, _and yet_ , it hurt all the same.)

He glanced over his shoulder as if Carver might suddenly appear in the doorway, stomach twisting in sharp, unhappy shapes. “I don’t think he’s here,” he murmured.

“You would know if he were,” Aidan said with a crooked smile…then paused, studying the tight, guilty set of Anders’ shoulders. The smile slowly began to fade. “Or would you?”

Anders shrugged a single shoulder. That was too much in question for his own peace of mind. A symptom of something else he’d lost without realizing it.

“Oh, _Anders_.” Aidan moved closer, reaching to snag Anders by the back of the neck and pull him close, against the warm curve of his body. Anders didn’t resist, going willingly, gratefully, melting against him with his forehead pressed against the sharp wing of Aidan’s collarbone, each breath filling his lungs with that long-familiar scent. He had spent so many nights curled around Aidan’s still body, desperately afraid they would lose him between one breath and the next, that his dreams were still haunted by the ghost of that soft blend of leather and vanilla and the sea.

He curled one hand loosely in Aidan’s armor, eyes squeezing shut.

Aidan tucked his chin against the crown of Anders’ head, sighing. “You are such a bloody idiot,” he said with bursting affection. Anders made a noise of agreement—and of question. Because yes, _yes_ , he was definitely a bloody idiot; he just wasn’t sure which example of idiocy Aidan was referring to now.

How he’d recklessly thrown himself against the walls of his cage for years, deliberating needling the Templars into action? (His bones still ached with the memory of solitary.)

How he’d given himself over to desperate bitterness in the wake of Bethany’s loss, rebuffing Solona’s offer of renewed friendship and ruining Justice by taking him into his body?

How he’d pissed away any possible life with the wardens, and alienated both Fenris and Aidan with his grasping need?

How he’d lost his chance at being whole with a Voice of his own again, or how that need and his fear had driven him to turn away the one person who managed to make him feel almost…somehow…in some small way…himself again?

Aidan sighed, holding him for a long minute, letting Anders cling to him in return. The fire popped and cracked, and Trouble quietly began to snore, curled by its heat. Finally, Aidan sat back to look at him and Anders reluctantly pulled away, the reaching tendrils of his magic trying to cling even as he put much-needed distance between them. “Anders,” Aidan said. “We don’t talk about Bethany very often, do we?”

Anders hesitated, licking his lower lip. They didn’t really talk about Bethany at _all_. “No,” he said slowly.

“We don’t talk about a lot of things, actually,” Aidan continued, mostly to himself. He looked down, dark brows knit. In the flickering light, Anders could clearly see the snaking tendrils of silver in Aidan’s black curls—dotting his temples and fanning out into the dark tangle. “Important things. Maybe _the_ most important things. I think it’s time to correct that, don’t you?”

 _No_ , he wanted to say, even as a part of him wanted nothing more. Anders was aware of how nervous he could make people. Even his friends, even the refugees who volunteered tirelessly beside them—Justice coiled up cold and tight in his chest had the ability to put up walls where Anders wanted none. There were truly only a handful of people capable of scaling those walls with ease.

Just Aidan. And Varric. And Isabela. And…

 _Carver_.

“Back when I first entered the Fade,” Aidan began slowly, “I stumbled across an old friend of mine, then you, before I found Fenris. I never asked what _you_ saw.”

Anders wet his lips. “Something similar, actually,” he admitted. His voice was suspiciously hoarse. “I saw a friend of mine first—the Hero of Ferelden, actually.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes. We were close, back when we were in the Circle together. I mean, this was well before she went on to join with Warden Alistair and the witch of the wilds and Oghren and all them to save Ferelden. And it was just a momentary _glimpse_ …probably because she’s related to you and Bethany, to be honest.”

“It makes sense,” Aidan said, head tilted. “Since it turned out her Voice was Alistair—the boy _I_ saw in the Fade. So I must have been drawn to him because he was the Voice of my cousin. And I was drawn to you because you were the Voice of my sister.”

Anders nodded. “And I saw _you_ next, because you’re the brother of my Voice.”

Aidan curled his legs up under him, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his fist. His lips were pursed in thought. “Did you see Carver in the Fade, too?” he asked.

“No,” Anders said immediately. “I never did. I don’t think he’s anyone’s Voice.” He winced in sympathy, glad suddenly that Carver wasn’t there to overhear them. He knew from long, winding conversations how truly bitter Carver was about how everything in life had seemingly passed him over for his older brother and twin sister. “To be honest, there’s nothing particularly magical in him at all.”

“Mm,” Aidan agreed, studying his face still. “He’s lucky, in a way; not being a Voice, I mean.”

The sacrilege of that—the _shock_ of it—had Anders straightening. “Aidan,” he began, startled.

Aidan just held up a hand. “Hear me out,” he said. “I loved Fenris before I ever even met him. _You_ love Bethany despite never having met her—not really. And look at the two of us. What did we really get for loving so strongly, and so blindly? What did Mother get?”

He looked back down, clever fingers idly tracing the designs tooled into his leathers, and Anders couldn’t escape the feeling that he was hearing a speech carefully planned out and _not_ an impulsive bit of self-reflection. _He wants me to understand_ , he thought, even as everything he was rejected the very idea Aidan was proposing: that their lives might have been better off without soulmates.

“Aidan,” he said.

“I love Fenris,” Aidan repeated firmly. “I will always love Fenris. And despite…questioning…this whole idea of one perfect soulmate, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to ever want to love anyone else. I wish I were. Actually,” he added, looking up into Anders’ eyes. “I wish I were more like you.”

He…he didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to _make_ of any of this. “I don’t understand,” Anders admitted. “I…believe in Voices. I _want_ to be joined. I _want_ my Voice, Aidan.”

“You tell yourself you do,” Aidan said; his words were spoken low, gentle. _Kind_ , even as they slowly eviscerated Anders and turned his disorderly world upside-down. “I think maybe you feel like you _have_ to, because doing otherwise would be like turning your back on Bethany. But, Anders, wanting me to be some pale imitation of her isn’t honoring her memory—”

Anders jerked to his feet, flushed. _Trembling_. He fisted his hands at his sides and wanted so badly to be angry, but the words tolled like a bell inside him (like the phantom call of Aidan’s powers, so similar to Bethany’s and yet not the same) and he couldn’t find the right denial. “ _Aidan_ ,” he snapped instead, blustering.

Aidan just tipped his chin up to look at him, brows drawn together into an earnest frown. “You don’t actually _want_ me, Anders,” he said. “And if you let yourself ignore the whole Voice thing, you’d realize you never really did. You just refused to let go of her through me.”

He tried to turn away, but Aidan reached out with those lightning-fast reflexes—trained and trained again by Varric and Isabela, honed to a fine edge—and caught his wrist. _Refusing_ to let him run just yet. “But you’re so much _stronger_ than I am,” Aidan continued, “no matter what you tell yourself. You keep trying to convince yourself, me, everyone that you want _me_ to complete your joining, when really you’ve already fallen in love with Carver and could be—”

Anders wrenched himself free, fully expecting blue fire to lick its way up his skin—burst from him in brilliant cracks. It seemed _wrong_ to deny the magic his whole life had been built around and agree to this…this…

This rank foolishness, this…

This.

…this.

The blue light never came; Justice remained quiet inside of him. He looked down and saw himself reflected in Aidan’s wide grey eyes—a ragged scarecrow of a man, throwing his life away at every chance he was given. Dedicated to his just cause, yes, but so very recklessly willing to believe in the fate he’d heard whispered in a little girl’s voice so many years ago that he plugged his ears to everything else.

He had loved Bethany _so much_ , but…had he really known her?

He had loved the idea of Bethany _so much_ , but…had he given himself a chance to think beyond that dream?

He believed in Voices, believed in the good they could do, believed in the love they could bring, but…did he _really_ believe he needed one so desperately that literally nothing else mattered? And as much as he cared for gentle Aidan Hawke, did he _really_ believe he would find more happiness chasing the memory of what could have been his life instead of trying to forge ahead and find a life actually worth living?

Even more simply: when he closed his eyes and imagined the helpmate, the strong shoulder, the _partner_ who would help him break the back of the Chantry and free the mages, did he really imagine Aidan at his side…or was it Carver?

Carver.

 _Carver_.

Fuck, no, there was no doubt about it. He’d deliberately kept Aidan out of the mage underground until he’d had no choice. He hid the darker parts of him for fear of rejection by the too-good mage. He erected false faces and false fronts and careful walls between them so Aidan would never think less of him, but he’d willingly, happily, let Carver see every ugly inch of his frustration, his rage, his desire to someday see it all _burn_. He’d bared himself to the other Hawke over and over again because, he thought, there was no risk in being honest with him the way there was with Aidan. He didn’t need to make Carver like him the way he was so desperate for Aidan to like him.

But Carver liked him anyway, didn’t he? Despite all the flaws. Despite all the rage. Despite every fault and foible and bloody damn stupid miscalculation, Carver had taken up his cause and stood by his side and laughed at him when he was a fool and helped him when he would have failed and never wavered in his kind-in-its-own-way devotion and—

And—

_Knickerweasles._

“Oh,” Anders said, knees giving out. He fell to the stone floor with a _thump_ , hardly feeling the pain. Across the room, Trouble looked up from his crossed paws and gave a bark that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Aidan crouched in front of him. “I’m not trying to say all this to be cruel,” he said.

“No,” Anders agreed, feeling dizzy with revelation. He was in love with _Carver bloody Hawke_ ; he had been all along. “No, you’re right. I don’t want your stupid face after all.”

Aidan _laughed_ , lightly punching his shoulder. The sound was enough to break Anders’ wall of shock, and he tipped his head back and laughed with him—giddy and relieved and, weirdly, free. He’d been obsessing over his Voice for so long. Finding her, saving her, losing her, replacing her with the next best thing… He’d been _so focused_ , he hadn’t realized he even knew how to want something—someone—else.

It had never felt more amazing to be this stupidly wrong.

“It’s all right,” Aidan was saying, grinning back—almost looking like his old self again, too. “I wouldn’t want my stupid face either. So are you finally ready to admit you’re absolutely stupid about my brother?”

Anders groaned and dragged his hands over his face.

“ _And_ ,” Aidan continued, “are you going to stop being an old creeper trying to collect all the Hawkes?”

Anders groaned again into his palms, louder this time.

“Good talk,” Aidan decided, squeezing Anders’ shoulder. “I think I’ll go for that walk now—we can heart-to-heart more later.”

“I need to go bury my shame,” Anders said, voice muffled behind his hands. Then, heart constricting, he dropped his hands and looked up to meet Aidan’s friendly—open—welcoming eyes. And he felt _nothing._ No tolling bells. No siren call. No self-pity or hope or despair. Maker, how long had it been since he’d looked at Aidan and just seen _Aidan_?

Had he _ever_ managed?

“I’m sorry,” Anders said.

Aidan’s expression softened. “So am I,” he said.

“I do love you, you know.” Just maybe not the way he had always assumed.

“I love you too,” Aidan echoed, standing; those eyes were the warmest thing in the room, the world, “brother. And speaking of _brothers_ …”

He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling the dirty-gold strands. “I should probably go find Carver,” he admitted, wincing internally. He had done so much to piss Carver off over the last few months—ever since that interrupted kiss, he’d been demanding the world of the other man and giving very little in return. He wouldn’t be surprised if Carver refused to talk to him. “Grovel for a while.” Pause. “For quite a bit longer than _a while_.”

“Well,” Aidan said, tipping his head toward the far door. “Good thing for you he just got home.”

Anders went still, silent— _listening_. Sure enough, he could make out the sound of a door closing down below, followed by the distinct clank of plate mail.

His heart began to pound; his head was already pounding.

“I’ll stay at the Chantry for a few hours,” Aidan said with one last, crooked smile. “Give you both some time to throw crockery and yell and make up and whatever else you need to get out of your system. Good luck,” he added, laughing at the exasperated glance Anders shot his way—and headed toward the main door, disappearing into the early evening Hightown crowd, leaving Anders alone in the house with Trouble and Carver and his newly awakened awareness.

His…love. Knickerweasles, but it was damned strange to even think it, but the way his pulse quickened told him a hell of a lot; too bad he’d refused to listen before.

Anders tipped his face up, staring at the ceiling as he listened to Carver clanking about in the rooms below. He’d be stripping out of his plate before coming up to check on the rest of them, Anders knew. On Merrill if she was about, on Aidan, on Anders. Ever the mother hen, despite his preemptive scowl; Andraste bless the sour bastard. “Bethany,” Anders said, lips quirking into a crooked smile. “If the Chantry’s right and our beloved dead are looking down on us at all times…you might want to avert your eyes, love. This is going to get messy.”

Trouble? Barked an affirmative.

And Anders just laughed, feeling a decade younger than he had this morning. He moved to his feet and dusted off his hands, an actual spring in his step as he headed toward the back door—and down to Carver Hawke to  finally confess the truth, grovel like hell, and hope beyond hope that it wasn’t too late for whatever the future held for them.


	49. Aidan

Aidan was smiling as he stepped into the mild Hightown night. The stars were coming out at last, scattered bright and distant across the deepening sky. Most of the foot traffic had dwindled to the occasional woman out for a stroll; a merchant here or there making his way home from the market. No one paid Aidan any mind as he made his way through the cobblestone streets, face tipped up and heart almost light.

He couldn’t explain it—this brightness inside, as if he’d swallowed the sun. It almost felt like joy, and it had been so long since he’d been uncomplicatedly _happy_ that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Wasn’t quite sure what he _wanted_ to do with it.

Was it… _okay_ for him to be happy now that Fenris was gone?

And Maker, wasn’t that the exact same complicated dance he’d fumbled his way through the last time he’d lost his Voice, after the ritual that nearly killed them both? Lying in a dark room, aware of his family orbiting him like anxious satellites, the immediacy of pain fading day by day by long, grueling day until he’d begun to take interest in the world around him again. Just…the sound of his father’s voice. The press of his mother’s lips to his brow as he pretended to sleep. The twins arguing and the birds singing and—

Summer. At some point, he’d released his hold of grief—or had it released its hold of him?—and noticed that it was _summer_ again. After that, each day was a little bit easier.

This feeling inside…it felt like that, except less a slow awakening and more an unexpected headlong rush. Flowers bursting into bloom and new life and _warmth_ radiating from the even pound of his heart as he wandered through the dark Hightown streets like it was his very first time. Feeling…magic again.

 _Maybe it’s Feynriel_ , he thought, reaching out to trail his fingers across pitted stonework, swaths of ivy. _Maybe it really is the feeling of my magic returning_.

Smiling to himself, Aidan curled his hand into a fist and turned instinctively toward the Chantry. It rose above the city, gleaming white against the night sky like a second moon. Torchlight lit the penitent’s steps up to the huge front doors. Aidan tipped his face toward their light as he passed and swore he could feel those flames respond to each step he took. As if…

 _Don’t get ahead of yourself_.

It was almost impossible not to hold out hope. For all that it was a gift he’d never truly asked for, living without his magic had been…rough. He was grateful to be awake, grateful to be alive, but oh, _oh_ it stung to be mid-battle and realize that his friends—the same friends he had led into fight after fight—were grouped around him in a defensive posture. Were _protecting_ him, the weakest member of their party.

Thanks to Varric and Isabela’s training, he wasn’t inept at fighting with a short staff, but he kept finding himself fumbling for a spell that wasn’t there, leaning on mana he didn’t have to spare. Missing openings he would have exploited just a few months ago. Becoming a _liability_ , no matter how fervently his friends swore otherwise.

But, Maker, nothing would ever match the helplessness he felt when Aveline had been gravely injured on a jaunt down the shore, with Anders unconscious and the elfroot gone and Aidan able to do _nothing_ but reach for a healing magic that simply wasn’t there, hoping without hope, _praying_ for the first time in years.

_Andraste, please, I will give you anything you want if you just keep my family alive. We’ve already lost too much. I’ve already lost—_

Aidan pushed into the Chantry, breathing deep, calming breaths. His heart had begun to race at the memory, and fuck, but his hands were shaking. He caught tight to the fleeing tendrils of hope and held on for all he was worth—held on to that bubbling sense of _joy_.

 _I’ll make it through this_ , Aidan told himself, digging his nails into his palms as he moved deep into the dimly-lit church. _Even if it takes years, I’ll recover and I will make it through._

 _I always do_.

He glanced up as he passed beneath the statue of the Maker, monstrously tall and gleaming in the fitful candlelight. The occasional sister nodded to Aidan as he passed, used to seeing him here by now, but for the most part the Chantry was empty. Peaceful. Silent.

He caught sight of Sebastian on the other side of the transept as Aidan climbed the steps leading to the apse and distant sacristy. The other man paused mid-step, brows rising. _Do you have need of me_ , he seemed to be asking.

Aidan subtly shook his head, then tilted his chin toward the far back of the church, where it seemed only Sebastian and the Grand Cleric went. It was the one place he could be certain he wouldn’t be interrupted. As much as he loved his friends—loved his city—he found he craved time to himself more and more. This was the only place he knew his worried, meddling friends wouldn’t follow him.

Sebastian, bless his pious soul, simply folded his hands and bowed his head in agreement, visibly approving of Aidan’s piety. _He’d be less pleased_ , Aidan mused dryly, making his way up and back, up and back, toward the sacristy, _if he ever realized what I pray for._

His footfalls sounded loud in the weighty silence, his breaths even louder. Aidan looked up, face tilted toward the rose window, distant corners of him unfolding bit by bit as he stepped into the far sanctum and left the world behind.

A ring of candles created a rosy glow, their golden light welcoming as he slowly knelt before the statue of Andraste, palms pressed against cold marble, entire body thrumming with returning hope.

 _Please_ , he thought, closing his eyes and reaching inside himself the way he’d done a hundred times, a thousand. Tumbling into those hidden dark corners and praying with everything he was that things would be different this time. _Please, oh please, oh please, oh please_.

He clung to the feeling that things were different _tonight_ ; he clung to the feeling that had filled his breast when he first stepped out into the soft Hightown breeze. He squeezed his eyes tight and reached for the core of himself, the part that had been whispering to him since he was a _child_ , fumbling as he had each and every time these past few weeks at mana that slipped like water between his fingers no matter how diligently Feynriel worked to heal his shattered dreamscape.

“Please,” Aidan whispered, fingers curling against cold stone, muscles tight with the strain. Let tonight be different. Let the dam at last break. Let the hope be real this time. “Please, please, please.”

Deep inside—so deep he would have missed it if he weren’t so desperately focused—a flame flickered to life.

Aidan let out a stuttering breath, eyes snapping open. The candles ringed around Andraste’s holy statue were burning _bright_ , flames all but straining against their wicks like living things. They rose higher and higher as he stared, responding to the subtle burn deep inside his trembling frame.

Responding to _him_.

Aidan’s hand shook as he reached out, feeling the mana bleeding from him in great, messy waves, but not caring—not _caring,_ because oh Maker, the flames, he was controlling the flames. Subtly, barely, with all the effort his battered body had to give, but he was _doing it_. And small as it was, this one glimmer of promise that his magic hadn’t been lost to him forever, that he hadn’t broken some integral part of himself—that his last, lingering connection to the father and sister and mother he had loved and lost wasn’t gone—would have been enough to bring him to his knees if he wasn’t there already. Was more than enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes.

“Thank you,” Aidan whispered as the flames slowly began to die down. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his palm, trembling with triumph and hope and dangerously low mana. Those few seconds of flame had stolen all but the dregs, and he could feel the raw scrape in his chest, rattling like a cough in his lungs. He’d need to make it back home before he lost much more, but oh, “ _Thank you_.”

There was the sound of a footfall and a sharply caught breath behind him. Aidan dragged his fingers through his hair, wondering if he looked as tired and bruised as his body now felt. “I’m all right,” he told Sebastian, slowly rising to his feet. The world swayed beneath him, but he kept his balance, waiting out the uncertain spin, the way his vision blurred until the ring of candles formed a continuous line—a burning arrow. “I just overextended a bit. I’ll—” He turned, already smiling his most reassuring smile…and froze, words caught in his throat, heart stopping in his chest, thoughts stuttering one over the other as he _stared_ with silent incomprehension.

That wasn’t Sebastian standing at the top of the steps, gold-and-white armor gleaming in the dim.

It was _Fenris_.

It was—

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed. Inside his breast, that single spark flickered and _burned_. “Oh. Oh, of course.”

“ _Aidan_.” Fenris’s voice was a low rasp, so guttural it sounded _pained_ —agonized. As if the mere sight of Aidan was enough to unmake him. Aidan frowned, torn between reaching out for him and pulling away, utterly at sea. He’d dreamed of seeing Fenris again—of _course_ he had—but even his dreams had never managed to cobble together exactly how this first confrontation would go down. Fenris had been the love of his life, but he had also made it very clear he didn’t want that from Aidan.

He’d made it clear Aidan had hurt him through their bonding, and when Aidan had gutted himself to save Fenris that pain (to keep a promise rashly given when he was a child too in love to see clearly) Fenris had _left him_.

It was so good to see him; it hurt like nothing ever had before.

“So,” Aidan said when Fenris was silent, his own voice roughening. He wished he had something to hold on to—the world felt as if it were swimming around him, everything but Fenris a golden haze. “Welcome back to Kirkwall. Are you…staying for long?”

Fenris sucked in a shallow breath, eyes raking down his body as if reassuring himself Aidan was really there. His expression was a study in shock and pain and hope and— And Aidan no idea what to make of it all. “You’re alive,” Fenris managed.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said. There was a part of him that wanted to add, _You would have known that if you’d stayed_ , but he bit his tongue. He was missing some part of this puzzle; the way Fenris _stared_ at him, the way he visibly trembled, the way it seemed he was barely keeping to his feet…something terrible had happened to shake Fenris so completely. He couldn’t remember ever seeing him so vulnerable, so close to breaking, even when Hadriana had sunk her claws into him. Which— “Is it Denarius?” Aidan asked, finally breaking their tense standoff and moving forward. He crossed the sacristy on unsteady feet, head swimming from lack of mana, but he pushed that annoying weakness aside. There were more important things to focus on. “Has he tried to come after you? Fenris,” Aidan added, reaching out to touch Fenris’s arm as he neared, fingertips only just brushing bared skin, “you _must_ know that we’ll do everything in our power to help y— _Fenris!”_

The last was shouted as Fenris suddenly _collapsed_ , crumpling to the cold marble with a noise that tore Aidan’s heart.

He tried to catch him, grabbing hold of the sharp, black armor, ignoring the way it cut at his own exposed skin. One arm snaked around Fenris’s waist as he followed him into a graceless sprawl, only _just_ keeping the other man from tumbling down the apse steps—dead weight, deathly pale.

 _Maker_.

“Fenris,” Aidan breathed, terrified. Oh _Maker_ , was he hurt? Was he bleeding out? He settled Fenris safely against the floor and began to search for obvious wounds, hands _trembling_ ; body _trembling_ ; everything fucking _trembling_ as sick terror overtook him. Aidan scrabbled for his mana, scraping his insides raw as he fought to grab hold of a healing spell, cursing himself for not having the foresight to bring bloody elfroot. If Fenris died after only just returning to them, he would—

He’d—

Oh, oh _Maker_ , he wasn’t sure that was a blow he could recover from.

“Please,” he said, then louder, shouting for help, “Please, someone!”

He was bloody useless and fading fast, his powers guttering in his chest—responding to Fenris’s proximity with more strength than they’d shown in some time, but with no _mana_ left to fuel the fire. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt so much, like he was hollowing himself out all over again, but he couldn’t let it end like this; he couldn’t let Fenris die; he couldn’t—

Cold fingers curled around his wrist as he desperately sought for a wound that wasn’t _there_. Aidan’s head jerked as he looked over to meet Fenris’s eyes. They were open, dilated and dazed, but _oh_ , he was still _alive_.

“Aidan,” Fenris breathed, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth—the utter _madman_.

“Where are you injured?” Aidan demanded. He forgot all about the tension between them, the distance and seed of anger, leaning in to cup Fenris’s face. His body was curled protectively over Fenris’s, which was supine, sprawled like an ink stain across the gleaming white marble. Those ghostly markings flickered with the faintest light as if responding to his presence. “Fenris, I can’t find where you’re hurt—you have to tell me. What—”

But Fenris didn’t appear to be listening. “You are _alive_ ,” he said, reaching up to touch a dark curl that had fallen across Aidan’s brow. He pushed it aside, tucking it back behind an ear, fingertips brushing across his temple in the most _loving_ of caresses. “I thought—I could not hope—even when I heard the news, I could not hope— _Aidan_ ,” Fenris said again, as if all thoughts, all words, circled back to his name over and over again.

“I don’t understand,” Aidan said. He could hear armored feet rushing up the steps—Sebastian. “Fenris, I—” _No, focus you idiot._ “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

Fenris opened his mouth to answer just as Sebastian crested the far steps. He turned, blue eyes darting about the sacristy, and spotted the both of them. “Oh holy _Maker_ ,” he breathed, frozen for a beat in shock—but then he was hurrying forward, already reaching into his pouch for elfroot, bless his empathetic soul. “Here, my friend,” Sebastian said, dropping to a crouch on the other side of Fenris. He pressed the uncorked bottle to his lips. “Drink and be well.”

But Fenris just turned his face away, lifting a hand to ward Sebastian off. “I am not—I am not _injured_ ,” he said, pushing himself up. He almost tumbled back again, arm quaking beneath his weight. Both Sebastian and Aidan caught him against their sides, keeping him steady between them.

“You’re obviously injured,” Aidan protested, feeling the familiar tendrils of frustration and love threading through the sheer weight of his worry. Bloody void, but this man was so bloody stubborn about looking after his own bloody needs. “You collapsed into a heap!”

“ _Shock_ ,” Fenris snapped, almost sounding like himself again—but then his gaze flicked up to meet Aidan’s and that bit of familiar temper bled away again, lost in the luminous green. His breath stuttered in his chest. “Shock,” he added, quieter. He swayed subtly between them. “At seeing you alive.”

Aidan let out a sharp breath. He felt more than a little unsteady himself, and his head was beginning to pound fiercely. The lights burned far too bright, and this feeling inside, this, this, this raw _ache_ was at once terrible and wonderful and he didn’t know how to deal with the emotion seeing Fenris dredged up inside of him. “You would have known that,” Aidan said, grabbing the bottle from Sebastian’s hands, “if you had cared enough to _stay_. Now _drink the fucking elfroot, Fenris_.”

Fenris made a sharp noise, somewhere between a protest and a laugh. He reached up, curling one gauntleted hand around Aidan’s wrist—thumb brushing oh-so lightly across his racing pulse as he leaned in to press his lips to the rim of the glass. He never took his eyes off Aidan’s, gaze shining love and warmth and gratitude as he swallowed the elfroot down down down, the long line of his throat working. His lips parted and slick. Dark lashes fluttering.

 _Close_. Aidan realized with a twisting in his stomach that they were sitting very _close_ , a palpable tension rising between them as Fenris dragged the sharp point of his thumb down the sensitive underside of his wrist in a faintly audible rasp. His breath was coming faster. He was flushed with sudden, unexpected heat, _awareness_ mingling with the other dark emotions swirling in a maelstrom through his body.

On Fenris’s other side, Sebastian delicately cleared his throat.

Fenris drank the last of the elfroot and Aidan slowly— _reluctantly_ , damn him—pulled back. The color was returning to Fenris’s cheeks, and he looked…

 _Beautiful_.

Aidan cleared his throat. “Can you walk?”

“I can walk,” Fenris said. “But. Aidan. I need you to know—”

Aidan tried to turn away, flushing. “We should,” he began, starting to rise.

Fenris caught his hand again, keeping him close. His eyes were a burning green, fever-bright and intense as he stared at Aidan as if he _needed_ Aidan for his next breath. As if he might shatter apart without him. “ _Aidan_ ,” Fenris said again, intent. “I need you to know, I would never have left if I thought you were living.”

Aidan’s heart stuttered, and he was only just barely aware of Sebastian murmuring a quiet apology and slipping away, leaving the two of them alone again. Fenris was close—so close he could feel the heat of his breath across his cheeks, could feel the _weight_ of his intent gaze. Could feel so, so bloody much. “I don’t understand,” Aidan breathed, voice breaking. He felt faint, himself. Too little mana, or Fenris close again, Fenris looking at him as if he hung the moon again?

Maker, there was no way to tell.

“What I did,” Fenris said, “the way I left you that night—it was wrong. I was wrong. I was so _fucking_ wrong. I wanted to return and tell you that before I felt…” His voice trailed off again, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Aidan said them for him. “The bond breaking.”

Fenris visibly flinched. “Yes,” he said. “The… _that_. I. Am sorry, Hawke.” He wet his lips. “ _Aidan_. I am sorry.”

“Why did you leave?”

The question burst out of him almost violently, all those weeks of heartbreak barely healed laid bare between them in the timber of his voice, in the way he couldn’t help but curl up into himself a little—as if he could ever hope to protect himself from Fenris.

No, no, that was a fallacy; he’d always be a raw nerve around this man, but it wasn’t Fenris who was hurting him but Aidan who was offering himself up to be hurt. He’d spent his entire life loving the memory of this man and so short a time loving _him_ in truth, and yet he’d never learned the necessary give and take of _true_ love. He just…gave, over and over, as if he could find some kind of worth in selflessness instead of just. More. Pain.

He hadn’t been a partner to Fenris; he’d been a martyr. _Dear Maker, no wonder the both of us are so fucked up_ , he thought, something inside fracturing even as Fenris reached for him again—then hesitated, hands halting mid-air, uncertain of his welcome.

“Fenris,” Aidan began.

“I was told you died,” Fenris said, slowly letting his hands fall into his lap. “I thought I killed you. I…could not stay.”

Aidan let out a long, shaky breath. “Who?” he said, then shook his head. No, no he didn’t want to know who had driven Fenris away. But pieces of the puzzle were all coming together now, and it was like a reawakening—like summer, all over again—to realize Fenris hadn’t just _left_ him behind.

Perhaps more importantly, it felt like a revelation to recognize this broken thing between them and see at last where it had all gone wrong. No romantic dreams filling his head, no childish hopes he’d built up until they overshadowed reality. Just the raw, open, beautiful truth at last. “I should never have initiated that bond,” he said in that moment of brutal honesty.

Fenris made a low, hissing sound. “I _asked_ it of you,” he said. “I should not have been a coward.”

“I _knew_ you weren’t ready,” Aidan countered. “I knew the both of us weren’t… _ready_. We weren’t in a good place. It wouldn’t have worked.”

“It _would_ have,” Fenris insisted. “If I had held strong, it would have. I did not lie to you, Aidan. I love you. Nothing was worse than the thought of living without you. If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

He had to close his eyes against the swell of emotion, burning brighter and brighter in his chest. This was all…so much. Too much. He wasn’t sure how to handle the uncertain, shifting ground they once again found themselves on. Wasn’t that always the way with them? Nothing had ever come easily—had been _clear_. “Oh,” he said.

“Thinking you had died… I know, now, Aidan,” Fenris said, so close he could feel the heat of him. The sheer weight of his gaze. “I know I do not want to be alone. Not again.” He hesitated, then added, quieter: “ _Please_.”

 _Please_.

Aidan shivered, feeling that all-too-familiar tug low in his belly—the pull toward Fenris. Maker, he would always feel it. He would always feel that urge to go to him, to give him everything. “I love you too,” Aidan said, because there was no greater truth in the world.

Fenris’s hands framed his face, warm fingertips and cool pricks of his gauntlets making him shiver again—some more—continuously, swaying into the other man’s heat with a low noise. He was crying, though he couldn’t remember when it began, tears trickling hot and silent down his cheeks. “Aidan,” Fenris said, so close he could taste each word—could swallow it into himself like an orboros, always circling back to where he had begun. “I wish… I wish to bond with you again.” Fenris hesitated, then added clearer, firmer: “I wish to be your _Voice_.”

The words rang like a bell inside of him. Everything he was cried out in perfect, unadulterated joy. Aidan slowly blinked open his eyes, reaching up to catch Fenris’s wrists. They were so close, each moment was a prelude to a kiss. “Oh, Maker, Fenris,” he said, smiling—real, and heartfelt, and _good_ for the first time in what felt like forever. “I am so glad to hear that.”

Fenris leaned in to touch their foreheads together. They each trembled at the contact, as if it was all nearly too much; as if they had both been through, just, _too much_ for even this moment of connection to be completely free of pain.

 _I love you_ , Aidan thought, soaking in Fenris’s proximity, his unexpected gentleness. _I love you I love you I love you_.

He took a steadying breath and bridged that last little bit of distance, letting their lips brush and cling for one endless second— _warmth_ seeping through that point of contact, so pure it ached. Fenris’s breath stuttered and he pressed closer with a noise that both broke Aidan’s heart and stitched it back together again, all at once.

 _Oh Maker how I love you_.

Then Aidan pulled back, breaking the kiss to look at Fenris—flushed and beautiful and _hopeful_ despite that old agony haunting his eyes. “I. Love. You,” Aidan said again, making sure each word was clearly heard. “I will never love anyone else, and I want to be with you. But,” he added, brushing back a fall of silver hair.

“But?” Fenris echoed, tensing.

How to say this without causing more pain? How to be utterly true to the revelations that had been unspooling in him for the past few weeks as he searched through the ruin of his life and tried to make sense of what was left behind? Of the mistakes he’d made. Of _himself_. Maker, how many years had it been since he’d truly thought of _himself_?

He’d been doing this all wrong.

“But,” Aidan said, meeting Fenris’s gaze head-on and not flinching—not giving ground. Not bloody martyring himself out of some childish dream of what love really was. He’d been so, so very wrong for so long; he was determined now to do this _right_. “I cannot be your soulmate, Fenris.”


	50. Fenris

_“I cannot be your soulmate, Fenris.”_

Fenris froze at those words, everything inside him gone silent. Still. _Shattered_ , like a fist through ice, and no, no, he shouldn’t have expected Aidan to still want him. Not after the callous way he’d rejected Aidan; not after he’d fled Kirkwall like a coward. Not after—

“Fenris. _Wait._ ” Aidan reached out to snag his wrist, grip gentle but firm. It wasn’t until then that Fenris realized he’d been pulling away, skittering back across the floor like he could retreat again from this kind of killing blow.

_Coward. Coward. Coward_.

Fenris sucked in an unsteady breath—the first in what felt like hours—blood rushing in his ears. He was horrified to realize he was actually trembling like a child, and he couldn’t meet Aidan’s kind eyes, no matter how he tried. “Hawke,” he began, voice rusted over.

Aidan tipped forward, reaching up to cup his jaw. His other hand still held its light grip on Fenris’s wrist, thumb brushing over his pulse again and again. “Wait,” he said gently. “Just wait. All right? Please hear me out.”

He couldn’t help but tip his face into the touch, eyes drifting closed. Even if Aidan was turning him away, at least… Venhedis, at least Fenris could sink into his warmth this one last time. At least he was allowed to have _this_ again, if only for a little while. It had nearly killed him thinking Aidan was gone forever. He may even be able to walk away again if Aidan asked him to, if only because he’d been given one last chance to soak in that perfect, indelible shiver of skin on skin. If only because he knew the world still had Aidan Hawke in it.

Aidan’s thumb brushed along his cheek, his temple. He leaned in until their foreheads were pressed together. “Are you listening, Fenris?” he murmured.

Fenris made a noise low in his throat.

“I love you,” Aidan said. Simply, as if that’s all there were to it.

“You,” he began, then stopped, unable to go on.

“ _I love you_ ,” Aidan repeated. Fenris could feel each word on a puff of breath against his cheeks. If he just pressed a few inches closer, he’d be swallowing them down down down where they could be his forever…and Maker, but that was such a crazy thing to think. How long had it been since he’d slept? Eaten? The last few days at sea had passed in a haze of hope. “I love you, and I want to be with you. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.”

He fumbled for the front of Aidan’s simple jerkin, gauntleted fingers hooking in the leather. “ _But?_ ” he asked; his voice still sounded broken, like glass over gravel.

Aidan let out a soft breath, little more than a puff of air. “Just that,” he said, and nuzzled closer. The gesture—the proximity—the _sweetness_ of him curled like smoke through Fenris’s body, breaking down his thrumming anxiety bit by bit by bit until he was once more, as always, forever completely at Aidan’s mercy. It was, it was just—

It was incredible what this man could do to him. It would frighten him if he didn’t need it so much. If he didn’t trust Aidan implicitly, the way he’d never trusted anyone before—not even himself.

“Aidan,” Fenris breathed.

“Can’t this be enough?” Aidan pulled back to look at him, brows drawn together in question. He looked…tired. Fragile. Beautiful, smudged shadows beneath his eyes making Fenris want to coil around him like a snake; to protect him from the world. “Just the two of us? Without Voices, without the Fade, without magic, without… _anything._ Just us.”

Fenris slipped a hand around the back of Aidan’s neck, cupping the curve of his skull. “Idiot,” he said, heart throwing sparks, and kissed him.

Because yes, _yes_ , it was more than enough; it was more than he’d ever thought possible. He’d spent his known life in furious defeat, chained to a cruel magister. He’d killed men who’d shown him nothing but honor and kindness, he’d cut himself free, he’d fled, he’d found himself _here_. Run to ground like a dog snarling at everyone who came near, and yet Aidan Hawke had been a revelation and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—imagine his life without him any longer.

He would gladly bind himself to Aidan as his Voice; he would just as gladly remain by his side without such a binding. What he wanted was as simple and as complex as everything Aidan was willing to give—and this time, he would not run from the sheer overwhelming power of his own devotion.

Aidan made a soft noise into his mouth, sinking against his frame. Fenris slid his fingers up into those dark curls, grip tightening as he parted his lips for the first slick of Aidan’s tongue, welcoming him, aching for him, shuddering as he pressed closer and closer and just…tried to pour himself into Aidan in messy, grateful waves. He brushed their tongues together, flicking lightly across Aidan’s palate, pressing deeper, deeper as Aidan grabbed at his dark armor and surged into the kiss. It went from breathless to beautifully chaotic in an instant, the two of them clutching at each other with a need that bordered on devotion; _reverence_ , their hands restlessly mapping as they pressed tight together beneath the all-seeing eyes of Andraste.

It should have been profane. _Venhedis_ , maybe it was. But the noises Aidan made every time Fenris licked deep into his mouth—the way he shuddered and jerked at each involuntary growl caught in Fenris’s chest—was purer than any prayer he’d ever managed to dredge up in offering to the Maker. He wanted to lay Aidan out across gleaming marble and trace his tongue along the beautiful lines of his skin. He wanted to relearn every inch of him _without_ the weight of a potential bond pressing down on them, as—

As—

As, _oh_. Oh, that was what Aidan _meant._ It was suddenly so very clear. It wasn’t that they could never be bondmates; it was that Aidan wanted them to be _more_ than a mage and his Voice. And to do that, they needed to start over without that crushing weight of expectation.

“I, _yes_ ,” Fenris managed, breaking the increasingly desperate kiss to mouth down Aidan’s jaw. He pressed his palm against that delicately pointed chin and pushed Aidan’s head back, exposing the long line of his neck—the twin scars that traced his throat a perfect mirror to Fenris’s. He followed one with the tip of his tongue, sucking a hurried bruise against the hollow of his throat as Aidan scrabbled at the dark expanse of his armor and _keened_. “I understand, I—I want that too, I—”

Nonsense. He was talking nonsense, but Aidan was arching up against him with a muffled cry as if he understood. As if he could read Fenris’s thoughts, emotions, even without the bond humming between them—and _that_ , that was love. It had to be.

It felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before, shining and painful and _good_ in his chest.

“I love you,” he said, gruff, muffling the sentiment against Aidan’s perfect skin as he worried at the curve of his neck with his teeth. He dug his fingers into the buckles holding Aidan’s leather jerkin in place, tugging roughly. He’d rip them to pieces if he had to—anything to get to bare skin, to the hot glide of him, flushed rosy beneath his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Fenris growled as Aidan arched into him again, yanking _hard_ at a leather strap. It snapped, loud in the hushed Chantry.

“Fenris,” Aidan gasp-laughed. He dropped his head back, spine a sinuous bow; it would be so easy to rip his offending clothes away and bite his way down that scarred chest. “If we don’t stop, Sebastian is going to have us— _oh_ —doing penance for the rest of our _lives_.”

“Sebastian can go to the void,” Fenris snarled. He was over Aidan’s body now, bearing him down; fuck, _aching_. He was hard, love and desperation swirling through his belly as he thrust down once, baring his teeth at the grind of armor against armor. “I am yours.”

Aidan let out a soft noise, eyes fluttering closed—then suddenly looked up at Fenris with a wicked grin. He hooked one leg around Fenris’s thigh and flipped them with a rogue’s grace, catching his palm against the cold marble, his other hand cradling Fenris’s skull to keep it from impacting stone as he fell back against the floor. Aidan rose over him, straddling his waist and laughing down at him—cheeks beautifully flushed, silver streaking dark hair, eyes bright; perfect, perfect, so bloody fucking perfect it stole his breath.

All Fenris could do was reach up to trace the line of Aidan’s throat with the tips of his gauntlet, looking at him with a dazed sort of need. “Aidan,” he said.

The laughter slowly faded, wickedness transmogrifying into something earnest. Aidan leaned in, resting his weight on Fenris’s body, forearm against the cold stone above his head. When he pressed their foreheads together again, Fenris could feel each hot puff of breath against his cheek. He could breathe him in, filling his senses with Aidan, Aidan, Aidan. “You know,” Aidan murmured, as close as a kiss. “I am _yours_ too.”

And oh, _oh_ , he did know. He knew, and at last, he could accept it; embrace it. _Trust_ it, no matter what it brought him. Fenris would never be fully comfortable with magic, perhaps, but he was comfortable with Hawke. He trusted him, Voice or not, bonded by magic or not. “I will walk gladly by your side,” he said, echoing his words from before. They tasted like a sacred vow on his tongue.

Aidan cupped his face and kissed him, long and slow and sweet— _hot_ , barely leashed. Fenris shuddered at the first brush of their tongues, already reaching for Aidan’s hips, pulling him down against his body even as he rocked up.

But Aidan gave a breathless laugh and rolled away, ducking Fenris’s grasping hands to rise up on his knees a few feet away. His lips were swollen, hair a riot of curls; his grin was beautifully infectious. “Wait, wait,” Aidan said, holding up a hand to ward Fenris off when he would have reached for him. “Fenris, we’re in a church.”

“The Maker has survived worse than what I want to do to you,” he growled, pleased when Aidan flushed and bit his lip. Fenris rose to his knees, catching Aidan’s waist and yanking him in close.

Aidan sucked in a breath and let it out very, very slowly. “ _Fuck_. Okay, well. There are Chantry sisters nearby. Elthina is somewhere about. Sebastian is— _Fenris,”_ he laugh-moaned, head tipping back as Fenris caught his earlobe between his teeth. “I am trying very hard not to get us both sent to the void here.”

He just grunted, tonguing the soft bit of skin. If he couldn’t have all of Aidan now, at least he could have a taste. “I thought you dead,” he murmured, kissing just behind Aidan’s ear. “I thought I had killed you. I am not letting you go for the Maker himself.”

“Fenris.”

The word was softer, gentler, and Fenris closed his eyes at a new wave of emotion crashing over them both. He wrapped both arms around Aidan’s waist _tight_ , as if he could somehow bind them together without the benefit of magic. Aidan, for his part, twined his fingers through Fenris’s hair and kissed his temple. His brow.

“I’m here,” Aidan said, words rustling fine silver hair. “I’m alive. I’m with you. Nothing else matters, okay?”

As if he could wish away the horror and self-hatred that had fueled Fenris for the last few months. Fenris gripped Aidan tighter, wrapping around him—protective and seeking protection all at once. Broken and desperate to keep this shining man he loved from breaking at all costs. “You will stay alive,” he vowed. “I will make certain of it.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aidan promised.

He would hold Hawke to that. He wasn’t sure he could survive another loss. Even if the world was filled with kind young boys like Taran Trevelyan—and he knew from bitter experience that it was not—he was certain there wouldn’t be enough of him left for that good Samaritan to pick up the pieces.

If Aidan died, he died. It was as simple as that.

Instead of saying as much, Fenris pressed a soft kiss against Aidan’s neck, then his jaw, his temple, his cheek.  Between his brows, fingers curling in Aidan’s hair. The way Aidan sighed and tipped closer to him was as necessary as his next breath; he wondered, dimly, how long it would take before he’d managed to convince himself he hadn’t killed the man he loved after all. “Hawke…”

Aidan sighed again. “We should go home,” he said, curling his fingers around Fenris’s wrist and squeezing lightly.

_Home_.

Fenris closed his eyes. The word tolled through his body, echoing through every dark corner, lighting him up inside. It seemed…impossible, that after everything he’d experienced, everything he’d done, he could have something as simple and as indelible as _home_.

“That is,” Aidan added quickly, pulling back so they could look at each other, though not fully breaking Fenris’s grip, “it’s your home if you want it to be. If not, we could… Varric paid off enough people to keep your mansion empty, I think.”

Fenris tightened his fingers in dark curls. “No,” he said. He leaned in, brushing their mouths together one more time—then again, and again, because kissing Aidan was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was everything good about a heady Tevinter wine without any of the bitterness. Aidan melted against him immediately, and he was tempted to nudge the other man back until he was sprawled across stone and just. Keep. Kissing. Never mind the Chantry and Sebastian and Elthina and the Maker himself—just lose himself in the span of Hawke’s body, in the way he arched and moaned, in the delicate responses that were still too new to be familiar to him.

But he forced himself to pull back before he could give in to temptation, sucking in a shuddery breath. “ _No_ ,” Fenris repeated. “We will… Let us go home.”

Aidan’s slow smile was so perfect, so _missed_ , it almost hurt. Fenris watched helplessly as he stood, framed against the rose window—beautiful and too-pale and fragile somehow still despite the beaming light in his grey eyes—and offered a hand up. Taking Aidan’s hand felt like a pact struck, but he didn’t regret it for a moment as he rose to his feet and _kept_ his hand in Hawke’s…fingers lacing together in a tight grip, as if to say: _I will never again let you go_.

“C’mon,” Aidan murmured, giving his hand a little tug. They moved together down the sancrist steps and out toward the main precept, where a few Sisters went about their duties none-the-wiser.

Sebastian was leaning against a far railing, obviously waiting to see if he’d be needed. He straightened when he spotted them, bright blue eyes dipping down as if searching for injury. His gaze paused on their linked hands and the _grin_ that spread across his face was enough to make Fenris grumble and Aidan laugh.

Thankfully, however, Sebastian had enough sense not to cross the cold marble to join them. He gave a little bow that should have felt mocking and turned away, leaving them to each other. “One hurdle passed,” Fenris said beneath his breath. At Aidan’s curious hum, he added, “Your other friends—”

“Our friends,” Aidan corrected.

“—will not welcome me back so warmly, I think.”

Aidan’s smile faded just a little, but he shook his head. “They’ll be glad to see you, Fenris,” he said, though Fenris was certain neither of them truly believed that.

Still, there was no point arguing. (And when had _that_ ever been his default? Love did strange things to you, Fenris figured.) Instead, he gave a faint tip of his head that could pass as agreement and walked with Aidan out of the Chantry and into the Hightown night. The moon was rising high above them, and from the top of the steps, he could see all the way down to the harbor. The Waking Sea roiled and tossed against the shore, white-capped waves like boney knuckles on a clenched fist—the Gallows rising like a blade from its grip.

The sight of it, the _reminder_ , had Fenris tightening his grip. Aidan looked at him with a concerned noise, but Fenris just brushed his thumb across the meat of Aidan’s palm and tugged him down the steps without a word. He wasn’t sure he knew how to explain his…complicated…feelings about magic and mages now. Before Kirkwall it had been so cut-and-dry. Magic had ruined _everything_ in his life. But now…

Now he was a potential Voice. Now he was in love with a mage. Now he had helped in the underground, for Andraste’s sake. _Willingly_. Nothing felt cut-and-dry anymore.

They moved without speaking through Hightown toward the old Amell estate, steps in synch. Candlelight shone through the windows of Aidan’s home, but Fenris didn’t hesitate to step through the door after him, even if it meant confronting Merrill or Anders or…fuck, Carver…when he was still feeling off-kilter. It didn’t matter; the second he crossed the threshold, he _felt_ as if he were coming home. All the tension left his body in a wave and his shoulders slumped.

Aidan glanced back at him as Fenris pushed the door shut. Their hands were still linked. “Are you,” he began, then hesitated. “You look exhausted,” Aidan finally settled on.

“I am,” Fenris said.

“I could find a bed for you,” he said slowly. “Or you could stay in my room if you wanted.”

He scoffed, stepping in closer. They were still in the vestibule, but the firelight from the great hall cast shadows even this far, flicking across Aidan’s face. “I said I wanted to be by your side,” he said, reaching up to brush his thumb across Aidan’s lower lip. Aidan glanced up through his lashes, and it was suddenly all Fenris could do not to shove him back against the wall and—

Fenris swallowed hard. His voice came out rough, hot. “I meant what I said. _Hawke_.”

Aidan shivered, lips parting—and then suddenly he nipped at the pad of Fenris’s thumb, just sharp enough to sting. His tongue flickered out to tease away the pain, and fuck, _fuck_ , that felt incredible. That felt… He was…

He let out a shaken breath, hard in his dark armor, turned around and aching and so in love it was like a madness.

“Come on,” Aidan murmured, pulling back—letting go for the first time since they linked hands. The firelight cast off his quick, wicked smile. “Let’s get you to bed, then.”

He turned and headed away, and it was all Fenris could do not to give chase. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, moving after Aidan with long, intent strides. Across the great hall; up the steps; down the corridor; into Hawke’s room.

Trouble looked up from his perch on the bed and cocked his head, tongue lolling at the sight of Fenris at his master’s heels. Fenris hesitated, half-expecting the mabari to go springing for his throat, but Trouble just let out a single bark and hopped down from the bed, trotting over. He butted up against Aidan’s legs, then wound between him and Fenris, rubbing against their shins in welcome before sauntering out the door.

Fenris watched him go, bemused. He looked back at Hawke, brows raised.

Aidan just shrugged. “I told you,” he said simply, leaning close—close enough to steal Fenris’s breath, close enough to make his stomach burn—to nudge the door shut behind them. “Your friends missed you. Now, before we start stripping and lose track of ourselves…” His words stuttered to a halt when Fenris _growled_ , and Aidan actually paused long enough to close his eyes and breathe through his body’s natural response. “…we should— You— You’re _exhausted_. We should agree that nothing is going to happen tonight.”

“I am not _that_ tired, Hawke,” he said, talking a step closer, herding Aidan back. His hands dropped to Aidan’s waist, grip tightening.

“Yes, you really are. _Maker_.” Aidan let out a breath and managed to duck away, laughing even as his gaze dropped down Fenris’s body. “It’s been a long, complicated night. You’ve had a hard journey. Tonight, you rest. We rest _together_ ,” he added at Fenris’s frown. “I’m not going anywhere, Fenris. I promise.”

“You _swear_ ,” he echoed, fighting to ignore the spike of panic he’d felt.

Aidan reached out and took his hand again. “I swear,” he said, and squeezed.

Fenris nodded, squeezing back. Then he began to remove his armor. It was as if Aidan’s suggestion—and the sight of his big bed—had been a spell; he could feel the energy seeping from him, draining away by degrees. He still wanted to lose himself in Aidan’s warm skin, his endless muscles, the soft noises he made, but there was a distinct pleasure burning in his gut at the idea of _time_. They had _time_ to relearn each other; they had _time_ to stake their claims over and over again. Tonight, he would sleep for the first time in weeks, months, knowing he had not killed his soulmate—and Aidan would sleep in his arms, _safe_.

Fuck. Fuck, but that was a wonderful thought.

He let the gauntlets, pauldrons, breastplate fall. Aidan meanwhile stripped out of his jerkin easily, down to the loose-fitting underarmor he preferred. He drifted to the bedside table as Fenris unstrapped his greaves, too-subtly angling his body as he pulled out a bottle of indeterminate liquid, unstoppered it, and drained it in three practiced swallows.

“Are you injured?” Fenris demanded, letting the last of his armor clatter to the floor, ignored.

Aidan restoppered the bottle and slid it back into the bedside table, nudging the drawer closed with his hip. “No,” he said, turning back. Then he hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“Explain.” He crossed the space between them, meaning to grab for the drawer, but Aidan caught his hand and pulled him up onto the mattress instead. It dipped beneath their weight, welcoming and _wonderful_.

Aidan slid his arms around Fenris’s neck, pressing soft kisses across his jaw. Fenris caught his chin, tipping his face and licking deep into his mouth—claiming with a kiss even as he explored the cool tang of lyrium on Aidan’s tongue. Why, _why_ would he need lyrium? Even if he’d somehow expended all his mana in the Chantry, it should have refreshed by now.

He caught Aidan’s tongue between his teeth and sucked gently, then harder, at the root, as if he could gain his answer that way. Aidan just pressed close, the warmth of him seeping through thin layers of underarmor, his breath catching and hips pushing up and—

And he broke away, panting lightly. “That,” Aidan said, breathless, “is _not_ a good way to make sure we fall asleep. Come on,” he added, slithering back to his side of the bed. He pushed the top pillow toward Fenris’s side, sprawling out and opening his arms; it was only natural to follow, curling within that welcoming warmth. “I’ll explain everything once we’ve _rested_. I promise.”

“You promise,” Fenris echoed. He slid an arm around Aidan’s waist, holding tight—anchoring the other man to his side. Nothing would take him away again; not while Fenris still lived.

Aidan nuzzled close. “No more secrets,” he said. He pressed a soft kiss to Fenris’s shoulder—breath hot enough to make Fenris squirm, still more than half-hard despite his exhaustion—then his neck, his jaw, his mouth. “We’re starting over. Blank slate.”

“There is no such thing,” Fenris warned, even as he wrapped himself around the man he loved and _hadn’t_ killed after all, resting his chin on the crown of Aidan’s hair. His eyes drifted closed, the bone-deep weariness finally beginning to pull him under. He’d been running on fear and hope for too long; it was agony to fight sleep, but he wanted to hear Aidan’s voice one last time before he let himself drift off. A warding, of sorts, against the old nightmares.

“Pessimist,” Aidan whispered against his throat. Then, just before Fenris was pulled down down down into the Fade: “ _I love you_ ,” and “ _I am yours._ ”

_Yes_ , he thought, holding on tighter—as if he never meant to let go. _Yours_.


	51. Carver

Carver was having a shitty day.

“Make that a shitty week,” he muttered beneath his breath as he all but slammed into the kitchen. He jerked out one hand to catch the door just in time, instinctively glancing about the (empty) room with a guilty flush…before remembering with constantly settling grief (like silt to the ocean floor, disturbed again and again by the current of his thoughts) that almost everyone who’d ever loved him was dead. There was hardly anyone left to care if he took out his bad mood on whatever he pleased; there was hardly anyone left to tease him into a surly smile.

And fuck, fuck that wasn’t exactly brightening his day, was it?

“Make that a shitty _life_ ,” Carver said, violently yanking off Templar armor piece by bloody impossibly heavy piece. It clattered and clanked and made a cacophonous orchestration to his sour mood, far more suitable than the cheery crackle of Orana’s carefully built fire. _Crash. Bang._ He wrenched off a single pauldron and tossed it toward the long kitchen table, grunting in satisfaction at the hollow _clang_.

He’d grab the whole damn house by the foundations and shake it if he could.

_Oh look, someone’s tied a raincloud over Carver’s head again._

Bethany used to say that whenever he came back from the fields or market in a temper. He could practically hear her in the echoing silence of this too-big house, laughter edging her words. It used to make him _so mad_ , the way she could laugh whenever he was at his darkest. He used to think she was mocking him, that she was being cruel. It never occurred to him until later, until he’d thrown himself headfirst into the Gallows, that it was her own way of being kind. Of giving him a target for all that formless rage he never could seem to shake.

Carver dropped his second pauldron with a wince, reaching up to touch his swollen shoulder. Bloody void, but at least he’d just growled and snapped at her back then. The angry mages locked up in Meredith’s hell were throwing a lot more than glares nowadays.

“Someone may have tied a raincloud over my head,” he muttered as he carefully, painfully, loosed his halberd and let it drop with a resounding crash, “but it’s the target on my arse I’m worried about.”

“What’s this about your arse?”

Carver paused, then huffed a sharp breath. He didn’t glance over his shoulder by strength of will alone, instead focusing on yanking off the rest of his heavy armor. “You don’t want to do this tonight,” he warned without real heat. “I’m not in the mood to play nice.”

He heard a soft scuff of stone and the pad of bare feet—coming _down_ the steps rather than turning around and going back up like any sensible person would. Of course, no one had ever accused Anders of being _sensible._ The thought almost made him smile.

“I don’t know that I’ve _ever_ seen you in a mood to play nice,” Anders mused, skirting about the kitchen table. He had half his hair up, but the rest was a messy snarl, falling about gaunt cheeks peppered with dark stubble. An errant golden curl dipped below his ear, brushing the long line of his neck. “I’m almost certain I wouldn’t recognize you if you tried.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Carver snapped, throwing aside the last piece of armor. He rotated his sore arm again, reflexively swallowing back the groan of pain. Andraste’s golden knickers, but whatever the swarm of frightened children had hit him with had nearly snapped him in half. He’d barely been able to move in time to deflect the volley (aimed, no doubt, for his head) and cover up any lingering evidence of the attack before any of the other Templars had flooded into the place. There was no telling what would have happened if it had been Ser Mettin they’d ambushed; Ser Korth. There was—

Hold on. _What_ had Anders just said?

Carver turned, brows drawn together. “What was that?” he demanded, certain he’d heard the other man wrong.

Anders leaned forward against the table, resting his weight on his spread hands. He was _smiling_ , one corner of his mouth kicked up as if there was something strangely endearing about Carver’s foul mood. “I said,” he repeated in that same lilting, teasing, thoroughly un-Anders voice, “how exactly should I go about doing _that_?”

He—

He had—

He had clearly hit his head somewhere between the Gallows and here, because there was no way he was hearing that right. “I—uh, _whatever_ ,” Carver managed to sputter, thrown completely off-balance and out of his self-pitying fury by the simple curl of Anders’ lips. This was not the morose, brooding mage he’d grown accustomed to since Aidan’s collapse. “I don’t know, use your imagination.”

“But I’d much rather use yours,” Anders purred, and Carver stepped back in blushing horror—because _by the Maker_ that sounded far too much like a come-on for his peace of mind—and immediately tripped over one of the abandoned pieces of his own armor.

 _Crash!_ It went scattering, clattering across the stone flagons. _Crash!_ Carver went stumbling back, tumbling, toppling, _falling_ hard on his arse, sprawled graceless and red-cheeked and scowling again before the merrily crackling fire: a fool of every stripe and more than ready to go roaring back to his feet in full fighting stance.

Except that shoulder, bruised by whatever spell the mages had thrown his way, chose that moment to seize up, his elbow buckling under the shock of pain. He didn’t cry out, instinct to swallow his tears too strongly bred over many long years, but his gaze snapped to Anders’ almost without volition.

The coy smile dropped instantly. “Are you _hurt_?” Anders demanded. He pushed back from the table, hurrying around with hands already glowing a brilliant blue. “Knickerweasles, Carver, you could have bloody said!”

“Oh shove it,” Carver snarled back; he batted at Anders’ hands when the other man knelt at his side, already reaching for the leather ties of his underarmor. “It isn’t any of your business what I am. I— _Stop_.”

“ _Make me_.” Anders never snapped like that at Aidan, all piss and vinegar underlain by eddies of golden-warm concern, and it shouldn’t have felt so good to be scolded by anyone, let alone a man with more principles than sense. And yet here he was, sullenly glowering as Anders picked open the ties of his underarmor with clever fingers…secretly hunched around a glowing coal of happiness he refused to let himself acknowledge lest this man find yet another way to break his heart.

Bloody fucking mages anyway, right?

Carver looked away, too… _aware_ of that golden head tipped close, those cool hands brushing over flaming hot skin as Anders pushed his shirt carefully down his arms. They both hissed in a breath at the same time, though for different reasons; Anders’ eyes were fixed on the mottled bruises blooming down one full arm and shoulder, spreading dark fingers across his chest and upper back. Carver was just…aware. Always, always all too bloody aware.

“What did you do to yourself?” Anders demanded.

“Why do you lot always assume it’s _my_ fault?” Carver grumbled, stomach twisting with pleasure. He turned his face away again, determinedly glaring down the fire. “Maybe I was jumped in an alley; did you ever think of that?”

Anders hummed a breath, hands settling over his skin. The touch—void, it was so cool against the fire of his skin. Painful-yet-good in a way he couldn’t explain, even before the healing magic began to wend through him. And _then_ —Maker, _then_ there was nothing but pleasure, bubbling up from beneath his skin, blooming in slow, aching, unfolding pinwheels as his lungs filled with the tang of lyrium and gooseflesh swept down his bare arms.

All the little hairs along his arms were standing up; oh, Andraste, his fucking nipples were beading tight.

Carver crossed his arms, ignoring Anders’ annoyed grunt as he followed the sway of his shoulder. “Keep still while I heal you,” Anders scolded, but Carver just scoffed and tried to force himself to stop blushing.

He’d never felt so…naked…vulnerable… _aware_ as when Anders was healing him.

 _Just keep breathing, mudbrain_ , he scolded himself, drawing in each breath with infinite care.

Anders’ hand slid down the muscled hills and valleys of Carver’s bicep, thumb stroking along an old bit of raised scar tissue before the glowing blue light slowly faded away. “There,” he said, voice unexpectedly scratchy. Rough, as if he’d spent another night working himself to the bone in a span of three minutes. “Good as new. So what did you _not_ -do to earn a bruise like that?”

He started to rise, but Carver caught his forearm, keeping him down at eye level. “Have you eaten?” Carver demanded.

A corner of Anders’ lips quirked. “Who is worrying over whom here?”

“Idiot,” Carver said. “That means no, doesn’t it? Come on,” he added as he rose easily to his feet, gently tugging Anders up after him. His screaming muscles had gone quiescent, lulled into their usual ease by Anders’ spell. But Anders _did_ look pale, as if he’d dug deeper into his mana than a simple spell should have inspired. Which could only mean— “Oh. So I take it you just left Aidan, then.”

Anders’ gaze flicked up, then away; it was answer enough.

Carver forced a smile. “Good, well. So I take it he’s doing okay?” He turned, moving toward the pantry. No doubt Orana had leftovers neatly stored and waiting, but it felt good to have something to do with his hands. Besides, cooking was always one of those chores Carver didn’t mind nearly as much as he pretended. He _liked_ making food for people he loved. He _liked_ knowing they were full and warm and happy, and it was at least in part thanks to him.

He took after his mother in that way, he supposed. If he really let himself think about it (think about _her_ , still so recently lost to them), he’d have to admit he took after her in many ways.

She always wanted to take care of the criminally underfed mage, too. Only Leandra had been doing it because Anders was Bethany’s Voice. Carver…

Carver just liked the way it made him feel.

 _More proof that your twin’s a selfish bastard, huh Bethany?_ he thought, rummaging through a sack of tubers and completely ignoring whatever it was Anders was saying in protest. He’d discovered ages ago that when it came to basic self-care, it was best to just ignore Anders and see to things himself. Maker knew the other man was shit at taking even the most basic care of himself, and—

“ _Carver!”_ Anders laughed, catching his elbow and tugging him back from the half-full pot of water he’d been setting over the fire. “I’m baring my soul here; the least you could do is pretend to listen.”

“I never understood the point of that,” Carver admitted, one corner of his mouth lifting in a reluctant smile. It was amazing the way butting heads with Anders could turn his mood around. “Pretending to listen, I mean. I always figured if I’m going to ignore you, I may as well do you the courtesy of not trying to lie about it.”

He shook his head, warm smile making lines crinkle up around his eyes. “I suppose there’s a kindness in that. Well, will you listen _now_?”

Carver tilted his head. “Are you trying to get out of eating dinner? If you’ve scraped your mana low, you need to recharge, and—”

His words trailed off into a confused mumble when Anders slipped a hand over his mouth. The touch was…unexpected. Even more unexpected was when Carver blinked and realized just how close Anders was standing—no more than a foot or two away, near enough that he could feel the heat being cast from his lean body.

“I’m trying,” Anders said, half-laughing and half-serious, “to tell you something important. I _learned_ something important. Or, rather, I realized something I should have already known.” He paused, letting his hand drop. “Aidan helped.”

A few weeks ago, that may have gotten his hackles up. Even now, he felt like he had to mutter, “Of course he did,” even as he started to pull away.

Anders caught his hand. “Wait,” he said. “This is already coming out all wrong. The thing is…” He paused. Took a breath. Tried again. “The thing is, Carver…” He paused. Took another breath. Frowned. “ _The thing is_ , knickerweasles, it’s bloody hard to spit it out when you’re looking at me.”

“I could go sit in another room,” Carver said waspishly. “Then you could have this conversation all by yourself.”

“Shut up, I’m working up to it.” Anders shoved back the tumbling fall of his golden hair. “You’re such an ass. I should have realized I was this far gone when that no longer drove me up the wall. _The thing is_ ,” he added when Carver straightened, startled, “Bethany was my Voice, and I thought she was the love of my life.”

He didn’t want to hear this. “Fuck Voices,” Carver said, this time not allowing Anders to stop him from pulling away. He took several steps back, circling around the table as if he could somehow run from the truth of this: the twin shadows that were always and would always be Bethany and Aidan. It was crazy how he could love and resent them so desperately, all at the same time. “I think we’ve all had more than our share.”

“That’s right,” Anders agreed, _following after him_ with a determined set to his jaw. “That’s what I’m trying to say, Carver. _Fuck Voices_. I mean,” he added, stopping. “Not _fuck Bethany_ , of course. She was perfect.”

“She’s allowed to be perfect,” Carver said. “She’s dead.”

He meant it to be another roadblock between them, another wall that pushed Anders inexorably away before Carver could read all the wrong things into this and be hurt again (and again, and again, and again, battering himself against the rocky shoals of this particular hope like a siren-struck sailor.) But Anders didn’t tighten up in offense—he just smiled a little, sad but still warm. “She’s dead,” he agreed. “And Aidan can’t replace her, no matter how much I wanted him to.”

 _That_ was a shock, the words jolting through him like wildfire. He sucked in an uneven breath, every last wall _obliterated_ as he stared at Anders, uncomprehending. He— He couldn’t— He was—

Maker. Had he finally come to realize what they had all been trying to tell him since the first day Aidan crossed his path?

“Aidan isn’t Bethany, and the fact that I could feel an echo of her through him didn’t mean that he and I were meant to be. It didn’t mean that we were right for each other in any way. It didn’t even mean that he could make me happy. It took a long, long time for me to really accept that,” Anders added, barreling past Carver’s slack-jawed shock as if he had world-shattering revelations every day. “And once I did—once, fine, Aidan helped me accept it—I realized that I never really wanted him at all. That he was just a shadow of the person I really wanted.”

Carver slowly shook his head. He often needled Aidan for interfering (like the meddlesome little mother hen he was) in their friends’ lives, but it truly was astonishing what his brother could accomplish with all that boundless empathy. “I have to hand it to you,” Carver said, sinking down to perch on the edge of the hearth; he was beginning to smile. “I never thought you’d get that through your thick skull.”

Anders made a noise of protest, and Carver laughed. He watched as the other man circled around the table to sit next to him, their shoulders bumping together in a way that sent residual pleasure curling through his chest. It didn’t even matter right now that Anders was _still_ untouchable, that he was _still_ completely gone over his twin sister. This realization was a first tentative step toward rebuilding the strained friendship between the two of them, and he couldn’t be anything but glad for it. “I know Bethany will always be the most important person in your life,” Carver said, spurred into a moment of raw honesty. “But I’m glad, for you, that you’re…void, I don’t know, not fooling yourself anymore.”

“Wait,” Anders said. “I’m confused. Why are we still talking about Bethany?”

Carver looked at him, brows knit, waiting for the punchline. Anders simply looked back, blinking slowly. “I don’t know,” Carver said slowly. “You’re the one who was talking about her. _Shadow of the person I really wanted?_ ” he parroted, voice lifting in a mocking falsetto.

He half expected Anders to backhand his shoulder, or elbow him in the ribs, or give him a scornful look. He never expected Anders to bark out a startled laugh and say, “Oh! No! Carver, I was talking about _you_.”

Carver jerked to his feet instantly, heart lurching so hard in his chest he swore he could taste it. “What the _fuck_?” he demanded.

Anders, to his credit, winced. “I know,” he said. “Believe me, Carver, I do know.”

“What. The. Fuck?”

“ _I know_.” Anders covered his face with his hands. “But in my defense…” He groaned. “There is no defending me. Maker’s furry nutsack, I’m an idiot; I’m a complete idiot.”

He had to pace away, filled with sudden energy, sloppy with unexpected emotion. Fury, elation, confusion, hope, dismay: they tumbled through him like a storm off the Waking Sea. A summer squall, leaving him staggered in its wake. “You,” he began, hardly able to believe it. “Anders. You—”

Anders spread his hands wide. “I’m in love with you,” he said, as if in apology.

“My _sister_ ,” Carver said.

“I was in love with her too.” He winced. “I know how terrible that makes me; _believe_ me, I know.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “My _brother_ ,” he said.

“In my _meager_ defense,” Anders protested, “I just got finished telling you I wasn’t actually in love with him. I just convinced myself I was because I thought Aidan could replace the hole Bethany left in my life. I was wrong; he can’t; no one ever could; I don’t even want someone to try. She was my Voice and I will always miss her, but I want something real, not a shallow reflection of what she could have been.”

He felt like his head was reeling. He felt almost drunk. “You loved my sister,” Carver said, slowly, as if laying the facts out for the two of them. “You thought you loved my brother. You say you love me.” He looked up, half certain he wanted to reach out and throttle the other man, half desperate to drag his fingers through snarled golden hair and pull him in for a kiss. “Were you ever in love with my mother? With Uncle Gamlen? Come on, Anders, there are still family members you can work your way through here.”

Anders sighed and leaned back on his hands, watching Carver with a softness in his eyes that made Carver’s stomach tighten in reflexive response. “I deserve that,” he said. “I deserve a lot more than that. Honestly, there’s only one thing I _don’t_ deserve, but I’m still hoping you’ll be willing to give it to me.”

“What’s that?”

He looked down with a sigh, then back up again through his lashes. Those eyes—those beautiful, whiskey-bright eyes—were fixed on Carver’s face. “A second chance,” he said.

Carver closed his eyes, hating the way his heart raced. _We’ve been here before_ , he tried to tell himself, deliberately calling to mind the day of Aidan’s collapse. They’d bantered then, shared truths, _kissed_. They’d come together only to have Anders rip them apart, and Carver wasn’t sure he deserved to be forgiven for that. Not so easily. Not without proof that he wouldn’t break his heart again.

“Anders,” he said, then hesitated. The kitchen was silent save for the pop and crack of the fire. “ _Anders_ ,” Carver tried again, opening his eyes. Meeting the other man’s gaze was like stepping out into freefall; the crash could just be enough to kill him. “I have spent…a long, _long_ time feeling second-best to Aidan.”

Anders’ expression fractured. “I know,” he said, quiet. Torn.

“And you’ve never made me feel any different.”

“I know,” Anders said. All traces of humor were long gone. “Carver, I’m so sorry. I’ve never been anything but an idiot when it comes to…to _this_. I’ve never done anything but fail.” He wet his lips. “I’d blame the Circle, but I think it’s just a part of _me_ , too. I think I’m just reckless, but I’ll try with everything I am not to be. For you. For both of us. I won’t hurt you, Carver.”

Carver had to turn away, pacing. “Don’t make that promise,” he said, but the words weren’t sharp anymore. A heavy weight was falling around him, as if he’d been caught in the tail end of a spell. And yet there was a brightness hidden at the core, hope sparking with foolish, reckless, never-ending renewal. “You have no idea if you can keep it. _Maker_ ,” he added, whirling back, as brutally honest as he had ever been, “neither of us do. I’ve never been good with people. Maybe this time it’ll be me hurting you.”

Anders stood, expression soft. “I think,” he said, taking a tentative step forward; his smile started to grow again when Carver didn’t step away, “that’s part of the danger of falling in love. Hurting. Being hurt. But Carver, you’re a hell of a lot better with people than you give yourself credit for.” He laughed, dragging his fingers through his messy hair. “You’re a hell of a lot better at _everything_ than you give yourself credit for. Than any of _us_ give you credit for. I’m sorry for that.”

“Now you’re talking out of your ass,” he muttered, turning, heart giving a sudden outrageous leap—thundering like mad in his chest when Anders caught his hand before he could flee more than a step away, tugging until Carver reluctantly allowed himself to be reeled back— _close_. Close enough that he could count the fair lashes; close enough that he could feel Anders’ breath against his parted lips.

“Do you want me to give examples?” Anders said, thumb stroking over Carver’s pulse. Carver wondered, distractedly, whether the other man could feel the way it raced. “List all the times you’ve been better than any of us ever give you credit for?”

He felt like his cheeks were on fire. “Please don’t,” Carver said, insides squirming. He felt, suddenly, like a boy again, bashful and flatfooted and…

And…

And _good_. Andraste save him, but Anders really could make him feel just as _good_ as could _bad_. Carver wondered if that’s what love really was; that choice, day to day, minute to minute, to heal instead of harm.

To…support.

To trust.

He reached up slowly (slowly, slowly, as if moving through time itself) and brushed his knuckles along the scruff of Anders’ jaw. “So,” Carver said, sounding gruffer than he’d meant to, “you’re in love with me or something?”

Anders turned his cheek toward the caress, rubbing against his fingers like a cat. “Or something,” he said, voice thick. “Yeah. Looks like I am.”

“And Bethany…”

“I’ll always love Bethany,” Anders said. He pressed his lips to the meat of Carver’s palm, eyes closing. “But she’s gone, and we’re here.”

It was criminal the way this man could knock the breath from him. Carver shivered and pressed infinitesimally closer. “And Aidan?”

His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile, soft against the rough callouses of Carver’s hand. “Maybe we could be a good influence on Aidan,” he teased. “Show him that there’s life beyond soulmates. Maker knows _he_ could use a fair distance from the disaster this all has been.” When he looked into Carver’s eyes, the warm humor there made his knees weak. “I always did want an older brother.”

“ _Older_ my ass,” Carver said. “You’ve got, what, five years on him? You’re practically falling apart; I swear I can hear you creak when you move, and—”

Carver’s words ended on a startled, indrawn breath at the sudden press of Anders’ mouth. At the _kiss,_ lips tilted up into a smile, soft, soft, so incredibly soft. He made another sound, lost in the rasp of stubble against his chin when Anders tilted his head for a better angle—one hand lifting to cup the line of his jaw in a heartbreakingly tentative touch.

 _Please_ , the kiss seemed to say, achingly sweet and yearning. _Please_.

He wanted nothing more than to give in to this, to _Anders_. To finally have something of his own; to be chosen, to be special, to, to, to matter. He felt like he _mattered_ to Anders, that he finally wasn’t second or third best, and fuck but that nearly knocked him back. It nearly leveled him to the ground, and he wanted, he _wanted_ —

He wanted to believe it was real.

…he just wasn’t sure he did yet.

Carver reluctantly broke the kiss, though he didn’t pull away; he was _through_ with putting false distance between them. “Anders,” he said, low. Just that, but it was enough.

Anders let out a serrated breath and eased back another few inches, giving him space. “It’s not enough,” he said. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Carver caught the sharp line of Anders’ jaw between his big palms, waiting until the other man flicked his gaze up to meet his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he said. “I mean, I’m not saying no. I just— I need to think. I need more time. I think we probably both need more time.” He forced himself to smile a little, wry. “When did you say you had this world-shaking revelation about Aidan?”

He could read the truth in Anders’ wince. “Ah…fifteen minutes ago, maybe?”

“Right,” Carver laughed. He started to pull away, then paused, hesitated, leaned in to bring their mouths together again. This kiss was rougher, a little hotter—Anders gasped against his lips and Carver licked his way into his mouth, stroking their tongues together in a kind of promise. He pulled back before Anders could respond, but the tension was humming between them. The endless possibility was there. “How about we take this one step at a time, then?” he said, voice stupidly raspy (and oh, but he had to swallow a smug grin when Anders _shivered_ at the sound.) “Maybe give it at least a bloody hour to breathe before we jump into anything.”

“So you’re suggesting we _not_ run in half-cocked?” Anders said.

He needed. “Let’s try going full-cocked and…” Carver abruptly pulled back, pointing a warning finger. “ _Don’t_. Don’t you _dare_.”

But Anders was _grinning_ , eyes bright with mischief, world-weary face suddenly a good ten years younger as he laughed. “Well,” he purred, amusement shivering beneath each word even as Carver turned away with a groan, “if you insist, I can show you the full—”

Carver swung back and clapped his hands over Ander’s wide mouth before he could finish; both of them were laughing, and it felt, remarkably, like the start of something new. “You,” he said, “are the _worst_. I don’t know if I want to bother with keeping you.”

Anders’ eyes crinkled at the corners and he pursed his lips, kissing Carver’s palm.

His heart lurched in response. His breath caught. He may have needed time to adjust, to recalibrate, to _trust_ that this wasn’t just another trick fate was playing on him, but now—right now—meeting those warm, smiling eyes…he already knew his decision had been made. Because soulmate or not, Voice or not, this man was his future, _his_ promise in the Fade.

And he was willing to fight to see it come true.


	52. Feynriel

Feynriel sighed, watching as Krem moved through a familiar series of exercises. It was astonishing, the way the setting sun caught on his Voice’s bronzed skin and dark hair—the way it made his warm eyes glow with determination. A bead of sweat wended its way across his brow, and Feynriel drew up his legs, arms latched around his shins so he didn’t do something stupid, like…

Like…

Like reach out to _touch_.

Krem grunted, muscles rippling, looking like something torn from Feynriel’s most wonderfully mortifying fantasies. Each move flowed into the next, as graceful as the ocean tide; the wind gusted, blowing back a strand of hair. When he turned, striking down, sunlight caught off the edge of his blade, blinding and perfect and gorgeous and wonderful and guh, _guh_. Just… _guh._

“I hate how bloody perfect you are,” Feynriel muttered, lightly hitting his forehead against his knees. Krem didn’t hear him, of course. Krem was Maker-only-knew how many miles away, lost to dreams. “Have I ever told you that? How crazy it makes me, that you’re so perfect while I’m…”

He gestured to himself, spastic enough to nearly send himself toppling off the edge of the rock. Which would be just _perfect_ , wouldn’t it? Just perfect and just exactly like him. Stupid, awkward, socially inept Feynriel who never could say or do the right thing—who’d always managed to make everyone at court _angry_ with him no matter what he did.

“The stupidest apprentice in all of Tevinter,” he muttered into his folded arms.

Tonight had been a bad one. His mentor had coaxed him into donning one of those ridiculously complicated Tevinter robes (with a single bared arm; what the bloody void use was it to show off one skinny bicep and pointy elbow anyway? It wasn’t like being _cold_ made him any better at spellwork) and attend a function that, on the surface, had seemed pleasant enough.

But then of course that was Tevinter in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Pleasant on the surface, and nothing but one booby-trapped sinkhole after another the deeper you ventured. Snide looks and whispers deliberately pitched just loud enough for him to hear; eyes following the subtle point of his ears and backs turning as if he wasn’t the sole living somniari of their time. As if he wasn’t powerful in his own right, damn it. As if—

As—

“As if I’m bloody nothing, that’s what,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. The rhythmic shift of rock and the creak of Krem’s armor was a tempo by which he could set his heartbeat; he breathed in and out in time with his Voice’s movements. “Less than nothing. Just another elf.”

He looked up, catching the gleam of sunlight off a sword. “Not even that,” Feynriel added. “At least they know what to make of their _slaves_. No one knows what to make of me, Krem. _I_ don’t know what to make of me anymore.”

Krem frowned, adjusting his grip on the blade, and for the briefest of seconds, Feynriel thought he might actually respond. But of course—of course—he didn’t, couldn’t. Krem was leagues away, somewhere deep in Ferelden, safe from the magisters and the courts and the whole of bloody _fucking_ Tevinter. “I’m glad you’re gone,” Feynriel said. His eyes burned with fresh tears, and he wiped his cheek against his shoulder—his _bare_ shoulder, because Tevinter was nothing if not absolutely confounding. “I wish I could be gone too.”

Krem turned, sword lifting, driving down—dancing. Feynriel sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he was dressed in his old leathers and carefully mended (and re-mended, and mended again, because he and his mother were nothing if not desperately poor) shirt. His long wheat-blond hair—down for the party to help hide those damning elfish ears (his mentor’s suggestion, couched in the most insidiously delicate terms)—was pulled back in its old ponytail again. And he felt…

Well. Not _good_ , but at least a little better. Because he might be awkward and weird and poor and _a half-elf_ , but here, in dreams, with his Voice, that was okay. He was okay.

Or at least something close enough to okay to count, anyway.

“Just a little while longer,” Feynriel murmured, watching Krem wind down. It was astonishing how regimented his Voice’s mind was: he trained so hard with Bull and the fledgling Chargers that those training exercises crept into his dreams nearly every night, so dependable that Feynriel—who could depend on nothing else—could set a clock by them. “Once I’ve learned everything I need to, I’ll… I’ll cut as many slaves free as I can and get the _bloody fuck_ out of Tevinter for once and for all. I’ll set sail, and I’ll _find_ you…wherever you are. Maybe—”

He stopped, heart aching, and looked down again. His bare toes dug against sun-warmed rock. “Maybe Bull will have a place for me, with the Chargers?” Feynriel asked, voice dropped low. “Maybe it’ll all work out somehow, after all.”

Right now, it didn’t feel like it could ever work out. Considering all the magisters who sneered as he passed—and all the others who had _already_ challenged him to magical duels—he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d make it out of Tevinter alive. But he had to hope.

He had to _dream_.

Feynriel slid off his rock and dropped lightly to the hard-packed Ferelden soil. “I have to go,” he said, glancing up through his lashes almost shyly. Krem swung his sword in a powerful blow, biceps straining. Sweat streaming. Beautiful and silent as ever. “I’d stay longer, but I wanted to check in on Aidan before my mentor woke me, and… And you don’t actually care.”

The words were out before he knew he was going to say them. Feynriel sighed, rubbing at his brow. Usually a visit to his Voice’s dreams worked like nothing else to lift his mood; it seemed like this was going to be one of those weeks where nothing he did, said, felt, went right. “Sorry,” he added, quieter. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Hard. And… And anyway. You know better than anyone how hard it can be, huh? So I’ll stop complaining. I, um, love you,” Feynriel added, feeling the flush as it curled across his cheeks.

Krem didn’t respond, but Feynriel could almost imagine that he’d heard him—that the color on his own cheeks was thanks to Feynriel’s appreciative gaze and not the heat of exertion. He drew in a breath, filling his lungs one last time with the salt of the sea, and drifted away from his Voice’s dream before he could give in to temptation to stay just…just a little bit longer. (Always, always, he found that he wanted to stay lost in dreams more than anything.)

Instead, he drifted through the Fade, bypassing bright sparks of dreams scattered like a starfield beneath him. If he focused on any one point of light, he’d find himself drawn down down down into a sleeping mind. There were nights when he allowed it, skimming the dreams of strangers and learning secrets of far-away lands. Tonight, however, he focused his attention on a familiar beacon and let himself be drawn back to the barrier that protect Aidan Hawke from his hoard of waiting demons.

He noticed the difference right away. There were fewer eyes watching him from the dark as he slipped through Anders’s magical barrier. Fewer chittering voices, fewer grasping claws. Feynriel peered above him even as he allowed his consciousness to be dragged below, pleased. It seemed the work he and Aidan had been doing was _finally_ paying off.

Aidan’s mental landscape was greatly changed from the wasteland it had once been. The grass Feynriel landed on was green and soft, springy beneath his feet. It spread into an unfamiliar rolling hill, fields in the distance and low mountains even farther on—green-topped and lush. His breath fanned out in puffs of white even if he couldn’t feel the chill, and delicate frost clung to each vibrant green leaf and round red apple of a nearby tree.

Feynriel looked around, beginning to smile. The house, the field, the apple tree, the windmills in the distance—this must have been Aidan’s home, once upon a time. He could practically _feel_ it welcoming him.

He didn’t turn at the sound of a footfall. “You’re almost whole again,” Feynriel said, spotting the well of Aidan’s magic. Where once there had been nothing but rubble, trapping Aidan within his own mind, now there was… Well, if not a fully functioning well, at least the promise of one. It was cracked and cobbled together, broken stone laid carefully on broken stone and held by more hope than mortar. But it _held_ , and that was the important part, right? “You don’t seem to be leaking as much mana as before.”

“A little less each night,” Aidan agreed, stepping next to him. He was dressed in his soft Ferelden pants and homespun shirt, bare toes curling in the grass. His beard was gone in this dream version of himself, silvery pale scars gleaming bright down his chin and neck. “Though I still need too much lyrium.”

Feynriel glanced at him. “Isn’t Anders…” he began, trailing off awkwardly.

Aidan arched a brow. “Helping? Yes. More than he should. Merrill too.” He shrugged a big shoulder. “I’m trying to convince them to back off as much as I can. It’s…better for them. For all of us. And now…” He hesitated, then shrugged again, looking out across the rolling Ferelden fields. Lothering? Feynriel thought maybe Aidan had mentioned coming from a place called _Lothering_ before. “Now I have more than enough reasons to keep fighting to get well.”

“You look good,” Feynriel said. “Happy.”

“I feel happy,” Aidan admitted. “Things are…they’re going okay now. Better than I probably have a right to expect.”

“That’s not true,” Feynriel said—then paused, tilting his head as he studied Aidan’s face. Usually, he was slightly wan in his dreams, as if his draining mana kept him from fully connecting with the Fade. Tonight, he looked…more _present_ , more _real_ , like a mage ought to. Like…

Feynriel straightened with a sharp cry. “He’s back!” he practically shouted—then clapped a hand over his mouth. Andraste’s flaming knickers, but he had the grace of a druffalo.

Aidan just laughed— _kindly_ , and not at him, like the kids back at court may have—and rubbed the back of his neck. “Wow, is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” Feynriel said, voice muffled by his own hand. He began to grin at Aidan’s chuckle, reflexive embarrassment bleeding into pure pleasure. He dropped his hand. “I should have guessed right away. It feels… _You_ feel…” He didn’t have the words, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to fumble for them. “Are you going to bond again?” He paused. “ _Can_ you bond again?”

“I don’t know,” Aidan admitted. He tipped his head, and both of them moved toward that cracked well, its fissures lined with green growth. As a visual representation of Aidan’s injured magic, he supposed it looked…promising? Hopeful? Or was he just projecting what he wanted to feel on his friend? “I’m able to access more and more of my spells, but they’re at such a low level—and my mana runs out so quickly—there’s almost no point in casting. I’m, it’s, it’s challenging,” he admitted, “but I’m working around it. And with Fenris back…”

Feynriel let the silence catch and hold between them, willing to let Aidan finish that thought or not, at his own pace.

Aidan swallowed and crouched down, one hand dropping to the crest of the well. “With Fenris back,” he said, “I’m good with starting over, from the very beginning. With him, with my magic, with everything. I want to do it right, this time.”

Feynriel dropped down gracelessly next to him. “You didn’t do it wrong in the first place,” he protested, but Aidan was already shaking his head.

“That’s not true,” he said. “There’s so much I would do differently. That I _am_ doing differently. And—” Aidan paused, then dropped his head, laughing quietly. “And that isn’t why you came, is it? How are you?”

“Oh, no, no, that’s why I came,” Feynriel said. There was no way he’d be able to unload all his problems on _Aidan Hawke_. Talking to Krem was one thing (especially since Krem couldn’t very well hear him, could he?) Whining at Hawke, after all Hawke had done for him—after Hawke had bloody well saved his life—

He wet his lips. “I just wanted to drop in to see if there was more I could do,” he admitted. “But it looks like you’ve already got things in hand. I shouldn’t be surprised.” If he thought about it for longer than a few minutes, he _wasn’t_ surprised to see Hawke bouncing back. Hawke was like one of those heroes from the stories Feynriel had loved as a boy: he was bigger than life. Nothing could keep him down for long. Feynriel was just glad he’d been able to be part of Hawke’s narrative, if only for a little bit. “The rest will come back with time. I can feel it.”

And he _could_ , thrumming through each vibrant blade of grass, sweeping through each rustle of the leaves overhead. Aidan Hawke may not be fully healed yet, but he was well on his way; Feynriel had done all that he could. “I’m happy for you,” he said. “And Fenris. I really am.”

“Thank you, Feynriel.” Aidan’s smile was warm and handsome and completely open. Feynriel could feel an answering blush creeping over his cheeks. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Oh. Well,” Feynriel said, gesturing helplessly. He nearly knocked himself in the face with the expansive gesture, because of course he did. “You know. Just…tit for tat and all that. Um,” he added. “So, if you’re feeling better, does that mean you can go to Fenris’s dreams again?”

Aidan tilted his head, considering that. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe not. Either way, I’m not going to.”

Feynriel blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Um…why not?”

“Because he’s right here, with me. I don’t have to go into his dreams to know him.” Aidan paused. “I’m…turning over a lot of new leaves these days.”

“I can see that.” He stood, feeling restless, suddenly—almost ashamed to have made his way uninvited into _Aidan’s_ dream, even if it was to help. “I should go,” Feynriel added awkwardly. “I need to get a couple of hours of sleep in my own mind, when I can. Um. Be well, Aidan. I’ll write to you? Or?”

Aidan stood, more gracefully, and reached out a hand. “Or visit my dreams when you will,” he said. “You’re always welcome, Feynriel.”

Feynriel smiled, grateful, and clasped Aidan’s hand. It felt warmer and more substantial than it had in some time. “You too. I mean, if you could dream-walk. Which you can’t. So… Moot. But. _Thanks_ ,” Feynriel said with a laugh, letting go. Aidan’s answering grin was a good deal more warming than the false sun beating against their shoulders. “I wish you and Fenris the best.”

“And you,” Aidan called; Feynriel was already floating away, drifting back, moving fast toward the barrier and the thinning herd of demons waiting for the slightest slip. “Be careful, Feynriel; I’ve heard Tevinter—”

The rest was cut off as Feynriel slipped from Aidan’s dreams, leaving him a bright speck on the horizon—no longer a queasy flicker of light, but dawning bright, like renewed hope; like a rebirth. Like— Um—

“Good news,” Feynriel settled on, swooping through the darkness toward his own dreams, filled with dark stone and snide whispers and his own memories of Krem, Krem, always Krem, casting light in the darkest of Tevinter’s shadows like Feynriel’s own personal sun. Feynriel basked in his warmth even as he deliberately reshaped his dreams around them, shunting out the whispers that he was nothing but a useless half-elf, an idiot, a waste of the ancient arts and power. His days were filled with negativity; there was no point letting his nights be dragged down by it too. “We could use a little good news in our lives,” he said, curling up on another outcropping of stone to watch this shadow of Krem practice as if he had never left. “Isn’t that right, Krem?”

Krem didn’t answer…but then, of course, Feynriel was so very good at pretending he didn’t need him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see Fenris when he first left Kirkwall thinking Aidan was dead (you angst fiends), check out By Any Other Name!


	53. Aidan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely threehundredthirtythree has written a fic within the Voice-verse! It's Alistair/Solona Amell, and it is wonderful. Check out [Part of Your World](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/22119260) and leave plenty of kudos and comments!

He woke from sleep with a smile.

It was a new feeling, a new…lightness inside, as if his heart had synced with the rising sun. Daylight pushed through the curtains in uneven striations, painting the foot of the bed in gaudy splashes of gold, and Fenris—

Aidan rose up onto an elbow, looking down at the other man. _Fenris_ was still asleep, curled against Aidan’s side with one possessive arm flung across his hips, keeping him close. His chest rose and fell with even breaths and Aidan watched in a silent sort of joy, gaze tracing the familiar lines of lyrium.

They looked so different on Fenris. More delicate, more refined, as if etched into his skin with the utmost care. Aidan’s scars were a distorted reflection, raw in a way the glittering lyrium could never be. He reached up to touch his own throat, tracing down the thick central line. For the longest time, it represented his sole connection to his Voice. Looking in the mirror and studying the lines swooping across his own sun-browned skin, Aidan could almost, _almost_ imagine Fenris there.

And now?

Now Fenris was laying curled against his pillows, expression soft in sleep, and Aidan could look his fill. He could…lean in and press his lips to one of those silvery lines if he wanted to. He could trace them with his tongue.

He shivered, stomach twisting in pleasure, and leaned in to brush his lips across Fenris’s smooth brow. Fenris murmured, turning instinctively toward him, arm tightening. Aidan waited, breath held, but Fenris stilled a moment later, slipping seamlessly back into sleep.

 _Don’t be a selfish ass_ , Aidan reminded himself. It was good Fenris was getting his sleep; he _needed_ it. Aidan could very well entertain himself until Fenris woke.

Still, he hesitated in the bed ( _their_ bed?), watching Fenris for a few minutes. Those dark lashes made a beautiful fan across his cheeks. His lips were pursed on a breath. His fingers clenched in the bedsheets, tightening and then relaxing, and Aidan swore he could see the quicksilver shifts of Fenris’s gaze beneath his lids as he drifted through the Fade. He looked younger, somehow, curled in the big bed. He looked…at peace? Maybe. Or at least close enough that it could count.

“Okay,” Aidan whispered. The sun was pushing farther across the floor and, just outside the door, Trouble was beginning to whine. His mouth tasted like cotton and his head was beginning to pound and Anders would be gently tapping on the door _any moment now_ , looking to refill his mana. “Okay; time to stop being a complete creeper and start your day, Hawke.”

Easier said than done. He was reluctant to look away from Fenris now that they were finally here, together. Even more, Fenris’s grip was nearly impossible to break, even in sleep. It tightened when Aidan tried to slither free, fingers digging reflexively into Aidan’s hip, muscle standing out in stark relief. _Beautiful_. Also? A little painful.

“Ouch, ouch, sweetheart, ouch,” Aidan said, _sotto_ , as he slithered and twisted and carefully worked his way free. He had to swallow a laugh when Fenris actually _whined_ in his sleep, grasping for him, and oh, this felt good—this felt _wonderful_ , pure joy bubbling up in his chest. He finally managed to escape, stumbling across the flagstones before catching his balance. Just outside the door, Trouble gave a hopeful bark.

Aidan pulled open the door. “Shhh,” he said, one finger over his lips. Trouble cocked his head, tongue lolling in a grin, as if this were the start of a wonderful new game.

It was only by chance (and reflexes honed by long hours working with Varric and Isabela) that Aidan managed to grab his collar in time, hauling him back before Trouble could go bounding into the room and onto the bed to drag Fenris sputtering into the land of the living. “Bad, _bad_ ,” Aidan whispered, tugging Trouble out of the room. He pulled the door closed behind them, choking on a laugh as he bent to throw his arms around his dog’s neck, letting Trouble bathe his face in disgustingly wet kisses. “Rude awakenings are for little brothers and Darktown mages _only_ ,” he scolded. Anders’ room was only a few doors down; it only made _sense_ to tiptoe down and throw open _his_ door with a, “Go get ‘im, Trouble!”

He wouldn’t want to deny his mabari the pleasure, after all.

Trouble gave a happy bark and flung himself into Anders’s room, skidding toward the bed and leaping up, little nub of a tail wagging. He crouched down, ready to pounce…then shifted his pose, cornering the other side of Anders’s bed.

Paused.

Cocked his head.

Whined.

Aidan, grinning, pushed his way inside. “What’s the matter, boy?” he asked, though he’d already figured out the answer. Anders’s bed was empty. Even worse, there was no sign that he’d used it once the entire night. “Down in his clinic all night, I’m betting,” Aidan said. He glanced around, taking in the snowdrift of manifesto pages, the clothes crumpled in a corner from a few days before, the windows locked tight and curtains sharply drawn. It would be all too easy to draw conclusions if he let himself, but Aidan pulled back before he could give the room more than a cursory glance, whistling for Trouble to follow him.

Anders may have earned a rude awakening considering the number of times he barged in on _Aidan_ , but his privacy was his own.

They made their way down the steps in perfect sync, toward the Great Hall—fire neatly banked sometime the night before and still waiting to be fed. Trouble was panting happily as they crossed the stone and headed toward the front door, the stoop, the cobbles just beyond the Amell estate where the merchants and craftsmen were already going about their day. Aidan leaned against the doorjamb dressed still in his loose underarmor, arms crossing over his chest as he watched Trouble sniff around the neat flowerbeds and little copses that littered all of Hightown, looking for a likely place to do his morning business.

A soft, sea breeze ruffled his hair and Aidan closed his eyes in reflexive enjoyment. It felt cool against his cheeks, contrasting with the warmth of the rising sun. He could smell the salt, and the flowers just beginning to bloom, and the incense drifting down from the Chantry outbuildings. He could smell… _home_.

Kirkwall was _home_.

“What do you think, boy?” Aidan murmured, tipping his head down—eyes still closed in perfect relaxation—at the brush of a wet nose against his palm. “Are you ready to start considering yourself a true Marcher?”

Trouble huffed a noisy breath, and Aidan laughed, straightening. He winked down at his glowering dog, not at all intimidated by the flash of teeth. “I’m sure there must be a decent breed or two outside of Ferelden. Not to mention—”

Trouble huffed again, pushing past Aidan to nose his way back into the house. Aidan had to lurch forward, still laughing, to catch the door before Trouble could shove it closed with his bulk. His proud Ferelden warhound barely glanced at him before trotting down toward the kitchen, indignation in every line of his body.

Grinning to himself, Aidan slid the door shut and padded back across the hall, taking the stairs back up to the second floor. Orana would make sure Trouble had his breakfast, if she hadn’t already. Come to think of it, she’d probably have breakfast ready for the rest of them soon, too. He hesitated, briefly considering heading down to warn her they had a guest—and perhaps wend his way down to the clinic to give Anders the news well away from any potential confrontation—but then his eye caught on his closed bedroom door and…

Well…

Orana and Anders and Carver and Varric and all the rest of them could wait. The sun was still low in the sky, the day had hardly begun, and he practically ached to slide into bed with Fenris again.

Fenris.

 _Fenris_.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Aidan headed back to his room. He slipped inside, pausing by the door just to listen to the steady rise and fall of Fenris’s breaths—more steadying than the ocean waves, sweeter than any salt breeze. He began to tug the door shut behind him…then paused, wincing. Anders really _would_ be up at any moment, ready to restore Aidan’s painfully draining mana. The last thing Aidan wanted was for him to come barging in and upset the delicate balance they’d found here—there was no telling just how fragile this early peace could turn out to be.

He glanced about the room, casting for a solution, when his eye caught on a pile of Anders’s manifesto pages. There were a few extra scraps of paper, half-balled-up from when Anders was testing out a new line of argument—it would do. Aidan crossed to his desk and snagged the quill, scrawling out a quick message:

_Please do not disturb. I’ll be down later; I have plenty of lyrium to see me through the day. –A_

Aidan paused after tacking it to the outside of his door, tempted to add more, then sighed and set aside the quill. He really should write to Varric to warn him Fenris was back in town. Or perhaps Aveline—no one could keep the peace like Aveline. Or Isabela. Isabela and Fenris were closer friends than most; it would be good to make sure there were others on Fenris’s side before he inevitably clashed with the unified wall that was Anders-and-Carver. _Or_ maybe Sebastian had thought ahead and let them all know for him.

 _That_ seemed unlikely, considering how earnestly Sebastian kept real and perceived secrets, but it was enough to allow him to turn back to the bed, notes unwritten, responsibilities delayed for just a little longer.

Fenris was still curled tight around his abandoned pillows, fingers curled in the sheets. His lithe body seemed to gleam in the morning light, chest bare, soft black leggings leaving very little to the imagination. Aidan took a step forward, palms itching to slide over all that bared skin—but a sudden pulse of pain had him stopping in his tracks with a wince. _Fuck_. Fuck, he hated being so dependent on outside sources for his mana.

He hated feeling _weak_.

Aidan veered toward the bedside table, hip clipping the edge of the bed as he went. He could have sworn his hands were steady when he’d slipped outside just ten minutes before, but they were trembling now, that terrible, scraping, _gutted_ feeling jangling across his nerves in warning. When he drew a breath, it felt like his lungs were paper-thin and dry as dust. He could hear his pulse racing, blood rushing in his ears.

The bed creaked as he yanked open the drawer. “You are unwell,” Fenris said, voice husky, flat. Almost coldly unemotional.

Aidan glanced at him, even as his fingers curled around the bottle of lyrium. Fenris’s face was as blank as his voice, but those green eyes flared with a gut-deep terror. It _hurt_ to see that fear there—that darkness, reminding him once again that Fenris had thought he was dead; Fenris had thought he had _killed_ him. “It’s not,” he began, then cursed, ripping the cork free. He downed the brilliant blue liquid in a single gulp—cold, cold, cold, like a sudden frost—and shuddered.

Immediately, the headache was gone; the pain receded; he was himself again…for now.

“It’s not like that,” Aidan finished, pushing the empty bottle aside. He climbed back into the bed, more grateful than he could ever say when Fenris didn’t draw away. If anything, Fenris pressed _closer_ , fitting against the curve of Aidan’s body as if he couldn’t bear not to be touching—from shoulder to hip, his head tilting until his forehead was brushing Aidan’s collarbone, and Maker, but Aidan couldn’t stop himself from wrapping around him as if the wall of his body could protect Fenris from all those ghosts of fear and loss. “It’s not like that,” he said again, softer this time, whispered against his temple. Each breath rustled silky silver-white hair. “I just need a little help with my mana now and again.”

Fenris curled his fingers in Aidan’s shirt, gripping the cloth right over his heart—knuckles pressed tight as if searching for evidence of his heartbeat. “Explain,” he said, sounding clipped and angrier than Aidan knew him to be.

He didn’t want to, but he had promised honesty. _This is our new beginning_ , Aidan reminded himself. _We’re equals. And equals do not live in fear_. “When I broke the bond,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know what I was doing. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing through most of it. Father always used to say this sort of thing was instinctual, but I think…”

Aidan frowned, pressing another kiss to Fenris’s temple. “I think, as I get older, I’m starting to realize he said that whenever he didn’t know the real answer. He was a Circle mage, and then an apostate; I bet most of what he knew outside of the usual doctrine, he learned on his own, or not at all.”

Fenris made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

“That’s not important,” Aidan agreed. At least, it wasn’t important to this. On its own, it was a revelation—growing up enough to see the flaws in his previously perfect mother and father. (Growing up enough to feel the bittersweet loss of them as idols as the last vestiges of childhood faded.) “What’s important is he taught me that everything to do with Voices was instinctual, so I…fumbled around, trying to follow my instincts instead of my head, with pretty much all of this. With forming the bond. With breaking the bond.”

This time, the low noise rising in Fenris’s throat could have meant anything. He pressed closer, however, lashes a soft flicker against Aidan’s collarbone. Each warm puff of breath felt incredible—giddy joy flowing through him—and Aidan slowly wrapped closer around his lover, drawing him deep into the curve of his chest.

Their breaths rose and fell together. Their hearts, he could almost swear, beat in time. If he strained, he was sure he’d feel the gentle promise of rekindling where the broken bond was, but he deliberately ignored it. He’d learned his lesson about blindly following instinct at the detriment of reason. “I…it’s hard to explain,” Aidan said. “I’ve been seeing my magic, the bond, like a well, but it’s easier to _explain_ as a sapling tree. Or like…like two stalks of elfroot planted close together. They share the same soil, the same water, the same sun. They’re so close their leaves brush with the breeze, and their roots have grown deep deep down into the earth together, tangled in places. The longer they’re planted there, the more tangled those roots get.”

Yes, that was easier than the crumbling well; he could feel Fenris responding to the image, tensing up as the implications came to him. “So when you uprooted the bond,” Fenris began, voice raspy. Rough.

Aidan hooked a leg over Fenris’s thigh, cocooning him—grateful, for once, for his ridiculously long limbs. “It uprooted my magic,” he agreed, low. “At least partially. It’s still there, but it’s…wounded. Wait, Fenris,” Aidan said as Fenris began to pull away. He didn’t tighten his grip, but he took advantage of the shift of Fenris’s body, dragging soothing palms across the ramrod straight line of his back. “Don’t go.”

“You,” Fenris said, twisting about to look at him. His expression was pulled into a snarl, but his eyes—those impossibly gorgeous eyes—were dark with pain. “You…hurt…yourself when you broke the bond? _I_ hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.

“ _I_ hurt me,” Aidan said. He caught Fenris’s hand in his, deliberately threading their fingers together so their scars—dark mirrors of each other—became one continuous line. “ _I_ broke the bond. _I_ made that choice.”

Fenris let out a serrated breath. “I demanded it of you,” he murmured.

Aidan squeezed his fingers. “I made a promise,” he said, “but you wouldn’t have held me to it if you knew the cost—would you?”

He shook his head, lashes dipping.

“And I didn’t give either of us the chance to _learn_ the cost. I just…did it. I acted—reacted—without thinking it through, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry my instincts led us astray.”

“I,” Fenris began, looking up.

Aidan reached up with his free hand, cupping Fenris’s jaw. He brushed his thumb along his cheek, waiting until _those eyes_ met his. “ _I_ ,” he said, deliberately stressing the word, “made my choice, Fenris. I didn’t wait to think things through, to talk to you about it, and I nearly broke us both. I’m sorry.”

The noise Fenris made was so low, so _hurt_ , that it was all Aidan could do not to drag him back into his arms. His protective instincts were flaring to full life, but he bit the inside of his mouth and forced himself to remain still. This was a lot for Fenris to process, on top of everything else he had been through. It was only right to give him the time he needed to sift through the cascade of emotions that were crashing around them.

 _Like a waterfall_ , Aidan thought, half-hysterically, watching the interplay of haunted memory flick across his Voice’s face. _A waterfall of bloody angst; when are we going to be smart enough to move out of its crushing spray?_

After what felt like a long moment, Fenris drew in a shuddery breath and squeezed Aidan’s fingers. Aidan squeezed back. “I was unconscious for a time,” Aidan said, taking up the story. “That…must have been when my mother told you what she did. I’m sor—”

“ _No_ ,” Fenris snapped, jerking a hand up to cover Aidan’s mouth. His expression was fierce. “ _That_ was not your choice. You had no hand in that.” He paused, brows knitting as he slowly dropped his hand to his lap again. “Leandra…had her reasons. There is no bad blood there.”

He wanted to protest (wanted to know more), but Aidan swallowed back the words. That was the flip side of insisting he be allowed to shoulder his part—his blame—in all of this, he supposed; allowing others to shoulder _theirs_. Still: “She wanted to drive you away,” he said.

“She wanted to protect you,” Fenris countered.

“I can protect myself.”

Fenris brushed his fingertips across Aidan’s lips—down the pale, curving scars lining his chin. “From me?” he asked, quiet.

“If I wanted to,” Aidan said. He caught Fenris’s hand and turned his face, gently kissing his palm, his wrist. “Yes.”

Fenris swallowed, eyes flickering shut. “Continue,” he said, rough; gutted. There was something so wonderfully, painfully intimate about this moment—sunlight filtering through the curtains. The mansion quiet around them. The brush of skin and the syncopated rhythm of their hearts, bond a flickering thing deep in their bellies, filled with promise. “Tell me all of it. Can you use your magic?”

On impulse, Aidan leaned forward, letting their foreheads rest together. Fenris sighed and pressed in tighter until they were sharing one breath; in and out. In and out. “Yes,” Aidan said, low. It only seemed right to speak in half-whispers now, as if the very air around them was fragile. “Some. Eventually. It’s getting stronger, day by day, but I’m still a long ways away from recovery. It’s my mana,” he added. “I can manage a minor spell here or there, but I run out of mana so quickly, and it doesn’t replenish the way it should.”

He hissed in a quiet breath. “So, the lyrium,” he said.

“The lyrium,” Aidan echoed. “Or Anders or Merrill gives me some of theirs. Until I fully heal, I need them, or…” He let that trail off, uncertain how to explain. He’d never seen a mage whose mana had drained to the point of nonexistence; was that even possible? Would the pain drive him mad before that point ever came? Or would the demons claim him long before the end came?

It didn’t matter. He had no intention of finding out.

“We’re managing. And Varric and Isabela have been teaching me how to fight dirty, so I don’t have to rely on my magic as much anymore.” Aidan’s lips twitched. “I’m not very _good_ yet, mind, but Isabela says I’m not a lost cause.”

“Would…” Fenris trailed off, frowning. He was silent for what felt like a long time.

Aidan sat back to look at him, brows quirked in question. Fenris’s frown only deepened. “Fenris,” Aidan began.

Fenris reached out, tangling his fingers in Aidan’s shirt, right above his heart again. His knuckles pressed tight, as if he were seeking out the reassuring rhythm. His gaze was fixed on the sliver of space between their bodies. “Would the two of us bonding again fix you?” he finally demanded, gruff.

Aidan let out a long, unsteady breath. He probably should have seen this question coming. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “Perhaps not. That isn’t a die I’m willing to cast—at least not yet. This,” he gestured between them before slowly, deliberately placing a palm over Fenris’s heart, mimicking his pose; they were facing each other on the bed, legs all but tangled together, close enough that each moment could be a kiss, “is more important to me right now. Getting to really know each other. Doing this _right_. I…” He laughed—an almost painful-sounding noise. “I really, really want to do this right, Fenris.”

Fenris hissed a breath, pressing in—brushing their mouths together as if he couldn’t bear not kissing Aidan; as if each moment they _weren’t_ kissing was all but unbearable. And Maker, but Aidan could understand. He ached, deep down, like parched earth at the first unexpected torrent of rain. Fenris’s kiss was almost too much—too desperately needed—too perfect to be real. And yet, _and yet_ , it was hyperreal at the same time, flooding his senses, his awareness, his everything.

Aidan pushed into the kiss, fingers of his free hand digging into silver hair. He tipped Fenris’s face, licking into his mouth with a swallowed cry; their tongues (hot, slick, desperate) dragged together, seeking. Searching. He wanted to sprawl back and let Fenris lick his way deep inside of him, to the very core, and _void_ but that led his thoughts to a filthy place. He moaned, tightening his grip, and Fenris practically snarled in response— _shoving_ into his lap.

It was feverish, clawing, a little too rough: emotion bubbling up and boiling over until steam practically rose around them. All the pain that they had been through fueled the kiss, audible in each hungry noise, each clack of their teeth as things grew increasingly frantic, feverish— _felt_ in the drag of nails across Aidan’s skin as Fenris scrabbled at his shirt, pushing up up up against him in a perfect glide of _all that bare skin_ and loose leggings that were only too easy to push down eagerly twisting hip, revealing the curve of Fenris’s ass and—

The door flung open.

Because of _course_ it bloody did.

“So, I’m ignoring your note for a very specific reason,” Anders said, strolling in with the aforementioned bit of paper between his fingers. “And that’s… That’s…”

He froze, golden brows climbing in visible shock, mouth caught open on a word—paper drifting from his fingers as he stared at Fenris-and-Aidan, so closely entwined they were nearly one creature. One creature with twin heaving breaths and dazed eyes and flushed cheeks and Fenris’s _bare ass_.

Fenris reached down to yank up his leggings, glowering instantly. Just as quickly, Anders’ shock melted into rapidly mounting fury. “ _You_ ,” he said—loud, as if he could shout Fenris right out of Aidan’s bed, out of Kirkwall…out of existence, maybe. “What the _bloody hell_ are _you_ doing here?”


	54. Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts roughly 10-15 minutes before the end of the previous chapter.

_So_ , Anders thought, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, _this is what happiness feels like_.

Of course, he immediately felt like an idiot for the mawkish sentiment. For…for the bloody hyperbole of it all. He’d been _happy_ before—plenty of times. The fact that he couldn’t seem to recall a single moment feeling quite like this was merely testament to how exhausted he was. He’d had a Voice he adored. He’d had friends he loved. He’d had a family once upon a time, and lovers, and colleagues, and a very full life. He’d had—

“I have to go,” Carver murmured, leaning over to brush a kiss across Anders’ brows that left his bloody toes actually curling in response.

Anders sighed. _All right then_ , he thought, giving in to the inevitability of the emotion building in his chest. _Mawkish sentimentality it is then_. He reached up before Carver could straighten, curling his fingers into the neck of his plate and tugging him back down for another kiss—a real one, this time, messy with tongue and teeth and sleepy morning affection.

They’d spent the entire night together, just… _talking_. Talking and kissing and and and _holding hands_ like a pair of green apprentices in the flush of first adolescent crush. Taking it slowly. There was every indication that they’d spend the next night doing the same, and the next, and the next, with nothing more adult than a lazy tangle of tongues in sight, and somehow Anders couldn’t be arsed to care. It felt sinfully good to sink so slow and deep into Carver Hawke. It felt like coming home.

( _Bloody. Mawkish. Sentimentality_. It was going to rot his brain clear through, he was sure of it.)

Still, Maker, he would take everything he could get. After the bloody tangle that was his life, Anders was _hungry_ for the simple pleasure of stubble rasping against skin, of the melting heat of a tongue brushing almost shyly against his own, of a pair of sinfully strong shoulders and a hot pant of breath and soft moans and roving hands and—

Carver finally broke the kiss with a husky laugh that did various interesting things to Anders’ body, pulling just out of grabbing range. His dark hair was ruffled and his cheeks were wonderfully flushed. Those eyes that were much bluer than Aidan’s—much brighter, much easier to get lost in despite (because of?) the hint of sharpness hiding in their depths—were all softness now. Funny how that made his toes curl, too. “Rounds’ll be starting in a little over an hour,” Carver said, voice gorgeously husky. “If I’m not back in time, Ser Cullen’ll have a fit.”

“ _Ser_ Cullen can come speak to me if he has a problem with it,” Anders offered. He was sprawled comfortably in the pantry on sacks of flour and sugar and Maker alone knew what else. Neither of them had been willing to go upstairs to where Aidan and Merrill were peacefully sleeping or down to the clinic with its oppressive stench. “And I’ll explain how he can shove it up his tight little Templar arse.”

Carver laughed. “I’m sure I’d like to be there to witness that,” he said, catching one of Anders’ grasping hands and squeezing his fingers. “But maybe not today. Or tomorrow, come to think of it. Or, you know, maybe don’t draw the attention of any Templars at all, if only for my peace of mind.”

He squeezed Anders’ hand again, as if reluctant to let go. Something complicated was slipping across his face, subtle enough that Anders might have missed it if he hadn’t spent the night learning the shape of Carver Hawke’s smiles. “Try not to get into any trouble at all while I’m gone, will you? And don’t let Aidan talk you into anything, either. In fact, maybe just…stay put if you can. Or if something comes up, send word and I’ll… I’ll try…”

Carver paused, ticking his gaze toward the kitchen door. Orana was already rustling about out there, humming to herself as she filled kettles and stoked the fire for breakfast. The briefest flash of fear—there and gone again almost before Anders could catch it—had nothing to do with the elf girl and absolutely everything to do with years and years of compounded loss. Happiness, for the Hawke family, must have felt like such a fleeting thing. And for _this_ Hawke, who never saw himself as anything but third best…how easy it must have been to imagine it all getting snatched away if he so much as turned his back for a moment.

 _I’m sorry_ , seemed too weak a platitude. _I’ll never leave you_ , was a promise he couldn’t in good conscience make—not with the dangers they faced daily. _I love you_ , was true, but it wasn’t what Carver needed to hear right now.

Anders sat up, crossing his long legs under him, and thread their fingers tighter together. He waited patiently until Carver’s eyes returned to his, shadows darkening the blue to stormy seas. “I’ll be here or in my clinic when you return,” he settled on, fighting to give weight to his words.

The reassurance earned him a vague crooked smile, there and gone again. “As if you’re ever anywhere else,” Carver said with affectionate waspishness—then leaned in for yet another final kiss. This one was nearly chaste, but Maker, _Maker_ , so sweet. It made his heart pound, his chest tighten, his whole body _ache_ like a closed fist, and he surged up to meet it with everything he was. It lingered, stealing his breath, Carver’s free hand cupping the sharp line of his jaw as if he were something precious to be defended.

 _That_ would have made him laugh, if he had any breath left.

Finally, Carver pulled back, clearing his throat. “Go take a bath,” he said, that gorgeous huskiness back in full force. “You smell like you slept in a sewer.”

“Well I spent the night trapped in your bear hug, so I don’t know what that says about you,” Anders shot back—laughing at Carver’s grinning-scowl. He watched as Carver shuffled away, and curled indolent as any cat amongst the bags of grain; Maker, but he’d be purring if he could. “I’ll see you tonight, Carver,” he promised.

It was truly shameful the way Carver’s smiles could made him light up. “I suppose if I have to,” Carver agreed, gaze sweeping over him as if memorizing the lazy fall of his hair, the rumpled robes, the bared line of a hairy calf—then sighed and turned, tromping off with a familiar _clank-clank_ of Templar armor that used to send his heartrate skittering with fear.

 _Funny_ , Anders thought, chin resting on his fist, _the way things change_.

He wondered, briefly, whether his old friend Solona experienced the same radical shift in viewpoint after she’d found her Voice. He’d never thought to ask her the last time their paths had crossed; he’d been too busy bristling with fury and unhappy pain and, well, Justice.

The thought caused the spirit to stir inside of him, as if he’d been called back from where he’d gone so blissfully dormant. _I haven’t forgotten our cause_ , Anders thought, rising on unsteady legs. He shook out his robes and reached up to brush back the tangles of his hair, pulling it into its usual half-queue. _I can have this and our work; I’ll make bloody sure of it_.

Still, he felt unsettled as he stepped into the kitchen, offering a reassuring smile to Orana, who still watched him as if she half-expected him to start flinging fireballs at any moment. He didn’t follow the path Carver would have taken—tempted though he was—instead wending his way up through the great hall to the stairs and toward his waiting bedroom. He was exhausted enough that each step felt like a weight had been tied to his foot, but thoughts of his _cause_ had his mind spinning. He may have spent a self-indulgent night gazing like a moon-struck calf into blue eyes, but he did have work to do. If he paced himself through the day, he might actually accomplish a quarter of what was needed.

That had his steps hurrying. Anders passed his (empty) room, already mentally organizing his day. First he’d check in on Aidan and see to his mana. Then a quick visit to the washbasin (Carver hadn’t been _wrong_ about the lingering smell Darktown always seemed to leave on his skin and robes) and…

And…

And _huh_.

Anders paused in front of Aidan’s door, hand already half-lifted to knock, blinking at the note tacked there. It was in Aidan’s sprawling script, perhaps a touch messier than usual, and said simply enough: _Please do not disturb. I’ll be down later; I have plenty of lyrium to see me through the day. –A_

He frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Aidan to ask for a day to himself, and he _did_ have more than enough lyrium to see him through nearly a week. (Varric had made sure of it, leaning harder than usual on his suppliers to earn a stockpile.) Anders didn’t like it—over-use of lyrium was a real concern, especially in a situation like this—but Aidan Hawke was nothing if not responsible. He’d know his own limits.

Shrugging to himself, Anders began to turn away, content to leave Aidan to himself and focus on his own towering pile of tasks to be accomplished…and yet something niggled at the back of his mind, making him slow his steps. Stop. Turn back with a small frown.

It was something he’d seen in Carver’s expression, vulnerable only for a fleeting moment. Something he hadn’t been able to completely translate, and _knickerweasles_ but it’d be good to have a second opinion on this whole thing. This was all too new for Anders to be blundering around in, and Carver was…

Well…

He was too bloody important, wasn’t he? And Maker alone knew Anders had already mucked things up with him as much as anyone could; maybe Aidan would have some more words of wisdom for him. Maybe he’d even be able to help Anders figure out how to reassure Carver that this nascent happiness wasn’t about to be snatched from his hands at any moment.

 _He wouldn’t mind an interruption if it’s about his brother_ , Anders reassured himself, plucking the note from the door. Convinced already that his path was just. He lightly knocked, waited a moment, then began to push open the door without response, as had become their custom over the past few months of unusual intimacy. _He’d probably even welcome it._

“So, I’m ignoring your note for a very specific reason,” Anders said, stepping inside with the note folded carefully between his fingers. He scanned the dim room for Aidan’s form—still abed? That seemed unlike him. At the very least, it seemed Trouble would have roused him by now. “And that’s… That’s…”

He stumbled to a stop—frozen—eyes slowly widening as he took in the tableau in front of him. Warm morning sunshine pushing in striations across the floor. Rumpled bedclothes and a pile of armor in the corner. Silver hair, flashes of lyrium bright in the dim, and… _Fenris’s bare ass_ , cupped like the sacred cheeks of the Maker himself in Aidan’s graceful, scarred hands.

What.

The.

Bloody.

_Fuck?_

The paper drifted from nerveless fingers, fluttering to the ground as Fenris jerked out of his statue-still pose, grabbing for the waist of his leggings and yanking them up. Aidan, shadowed by the other man, flushed and pulled back, mouth opening as if to protest. Which, considering Anders had just caught him tangled like a snake in the arms of the man who’d very nearly fucking _killed_ him was just _rich_ , wasn’t it?

“ _You_ ,” Anders said—yelled—bellowed, even, Justice rattling in the back of his throat as he _glared_ Fenris down. This man, this _man_ , this bloody fucking _man_ had been given the gift of a mage’s Voice and had ripped it away. He had stolen Aidan’s strength, his magic, by denying their bond the way the Chantry would have done. He had pissed all over everything Anders cared most about, and, and he had the bloody _gall_ to slip back into Aidan’s life as if he hadn’t nearly ended it?  “What the _bloody hell_ are _you_ doing here?”

“Anders,” Aidan said, one hand lifting in a conciliatory gesture. Fenris simply bared his teeth in response, turning to face him. He was kneeling on the bed, still coiled by Aidan’s side as if he somehow still belonged there after everything he’d done; the sight was enough to send a fresh flash of fury arcing through him.

“I _said_ ,” Anders repeated; he could feel Justice’s fury rising inside him, “what are you doing here?”

Distantly, he was aware of the clank of metal, of rushing footsteps, of power growing between his fingertips. But it all faded to nothing compared to the roar of the spirit in his head; _the injustice._ The _injustice_ of Fenris’s denial, of the way he had walked away, leaving Aidan an empty husk, only to _return…_ Mana boiled in his blood, and he felt his vision whiting out. “ _YOU_ ,” he said, voice bigger and somehow more hollow than before, ringing with the Fade itself, shuddering with the offensive spell that was building within him, “ _YOU HAVE NO RIGHT—”_

There was a crack of power—lightning, stronger than anything he’d ever felt—and a sudden terrible _shove_. Anders went flying back, slamming into the doorjamb with enough pressure to startle him to full awareness. Justice retreated to the back of his mind and he jerked his chin up even as he began to slide down the frame, legs weak— _staring_ at Aidan.

Aidan, who’d risen up to his knees, one hand on Fenris’s flickering blue-white shoulder. Aidan, who nearly glowed with power the way he used to before all this mess had begun—unearthly, inhuman, beautiful as any spirit. “ _Stop_ ,” Aidan said, voice ringing in Anders’ ears. Then, quieter, that incredible nimbus of power fading away to a faint glow—a corona outlining his frame, like fairy fire—he said, “Please. Stop.”

Fenris looked at him with concern writ clear across his face. Anders opened his mouth to respond, only to yelp in surprise when the half-closed door _slammed_ open, catching him hard across the flank. He jolted back, scrambling away as Carver stormed in, shield raised, sword bared, eyes wild.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, panicked fury laced through his words. “Anders, what—” Then he spotted Fenris and Aidan still kneeling on the bed (still rumpled, Fenris bare from the waist up, graceful lines of lyrium flickering in instinctive response) and his jaw went slack. “What,” he began, sputtering. His gaze dropped, finding Anders still-sprawled across the ground, and his eyes narrowed, snapping back to Fenris. Rage darkened his brow. “ _What_ ,” he began again, sword lifting, threatening, promising to follow through on the murder in his eyes. Its wickedly sharp tip gleamed in the morning sunlight…

…before it went spinning out of his hand in a flare of blue light.

Carver cursed, half-turning to watch as his Templar sword went flying out of the room and across the landing—across the entire great hall—to embed itself, vibrating wildly, in the far wall. Anders huffed a breath and began to clamber up to his feet even as Carver readjusted, lifting his shield to protect them both.

To protect them against _Aidan_? Madness.

“Do not,” Fenris said, as if sensing the unspoken threat, and those deadly markings flared brighter as he caught Aidan’s wrist in a tight grip.

Carver made a sound like a furious cat and launched himself forward as if he could somehow use himself as a sword; Anders cursed and snagged the back of his heavy plate, cutting his hand on a sharp edge as he was jerked forward with the weight of his momentum. He grit his teeth against the bright flare of pain, bloodied fingers slipping as he held on for all he was worth. “Wait, wait,” he said, fighting to dig in his heels, “Carver, no.”

“Carver _stop_ ,” Aidan snapped. He twisted his grip around, snagging Fenris’s elbow and shoving the other man behind him. Using _himself_ as a shield, nearly glowing with his own protective fury. “Back down, _now_.”

“You fucking _idiot!_ ” Carver snarled. He threw aside his shield blindly, lunging against Anders’ grip, nearly breaking free. Only luck had Anders holding on; Maker, but Carver was strong. “He nearly killed you! He nearly _killed you_ ; you can’t take him back when _he nearly killed you!”_

Aidan jerked his hand through the air, and Anders realized with a start that _he_ wasn’t holding Carver back—Aidan was. The threads of Force magic wound around the warrior’s steel cage, keeping him straining against an invisible wall. “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t do,” Aidan said, focus squarely on Carver; Anders may as well have been invisible.

He let go of his desperate grip, gingerly stretching his blood-streaked fingers. Sure enough, Carver remained straining against some invisible force, face heating red with hurt and rage and pain. Maker, so much pain. It was thick around the two brothers, circling deep and dark and strong as its own barely-visible chains. Chilling.

“Carver,” Anders began quietly, meeting Fenris’s similarly worried gaze. Somehow, Anders’ own feeling of betrayal meant next to nothing now. He could barely remember if he even had the right.

But Carver wasn’t finished. “Why?” he snapped, old bitterness threaded through each word. “Because you’re _the_ fucking _Hawke_? Because you’re some kind of hero?”

Aidan slid to the ground, stalking forward—keeping Carver motionless with threads of power in a display that suddenly struck Anders as unfair, unkind. How could Carver ever hope to compete against that? “Because,” Aidan said, visibly fighting to keep his tone even, “as much as you’d like to think otherwise—as much as all of you may like to pretend—I am not an invalid. I am not broken, or in danger of breaking. And even if I was, this is still _my_ choice, not yours. You are not my keeper, Carver.”

“I’m all you bloody well have left!” Carver yelled. They were close—so close—Carver visibly straining against bonds that seemed to be slowly unraveling second by tense second now that Aidan had left Fenris’s side. There were tears on his cheeks; there were matching tears bright in Aidan’s eyes. There was something far deeper and darker going on here, and all Anders could do was press a single bloody hand to Carver’s spine, making his presence known; making it clear that if sides were to be taken, he’d already chosen his.

Fenris, for his part, had moved silently from the bed and was standing at Aidan’s shoulder, stiff-backed and blank-faced, listening. Choosing his own side without even understanding the stakes.

 _Funny_ , Anders thought, meeting those pain-blanched green eyes. _I’ve never come closer to understanding the asshole._ Because in this moment, he felt like a strange distorted mirror to Fenris—only Fenris had already committed his unforgivable crime. Anders’s was still taking root in the back of his mind, fed by increasing frustration with the slow progress of his cause.

 _If I go through with it_ , Anders thought as the Hawke brothers faced each other, _will Aidan be as quick to forgive me? Will Carver?_

“—my brother,” Aidan was saying, voice somewhat gentled. “I understand why you’re upset, and I understand that it’s been hard, but that still doesn’t—”

“Do you know what Mother’s last words were?” Carver suddenly cut in, sharp, heavy with that dark thunderclap of emotion—lightning ready to strike. “Do you know what she said, dying in my fucking arms?”

Aidan jerked back as if struck. “ _Carver_ ,” he said, empathetic as ever.

But Carver wasn’t finished. “No. No, you don’t fucking know, do you? Because you were _here_ , already gone.” Carver jabbed his finger violently at Fenris, who actually flinched. “Dying too because of _him_!”

The room went silent.

Utterly still.

Carver’s heaving breaths were the only sound, and Maker, he was crying—sobbing, nearly, each sound rasping through him in dry, angry heaves. Anders wished to every saint he could name that he could do, say, something, anything, to ease that wracking pain, but all he could do was stand by Carver’s side and hope it was enough. (Knowing, deep to his bones, that it probably wasn’t.) “Both of you, _both of you_ , were leaving me, and I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, I, I wasn’t bloody _good enough_ , to save you—was I? Because you were wasting away before our eyes and she was a breathing corpse in my arms, looking up at me with someone else’s eyes and saying—”

He broke, voice catching in his throat, but Carver threw up a hand when Aidan would have moved to his side. “Saying,” he said, forcing out each syllable as if it hurt, “that she was _glad_ it was me.”

Tears were rolling down Aidan’s cheeks, and he was trembling—shaky, as if all that power had fled again, leaving him a hollowed shell; a whisper of his former self. “She was saying what we all feel, Carver,” Aidan said, and this time when he reached out to cup the back of his brother’s skull, Carver let him. He let himself be drawn close, forehead to forehead. “You’re right; you’re _right_. We wouldn’t bloody make it without you. I’m sorry.”

Carver caught Aidan’s wrist in one hand, eyes closing. “That’s not what she was saying,” he murmured—and the sound nearly broke Anders’ heart. He moved forward without really knowing what he planned to do, one hand brushing down Carver’s spine, the other falling to Aidan’s shoulder, squeezing. He was dimly aware of Fenris— _Fenris,_ of all people—echoing his movements with stilted earnestness. As if the other man was uncertain how to give comfort, but needing to all the same.

(And _that_ , Anders would never admit, not even to himself, was the moment he stopped hating Fenris. It was the moment they became…somehow…inexplicably…family.)

(A fucked-up family with more issues than a basket full of kittens, but family all the same.)

“You don’t have to,” Aidan whispered, but Carver just shook his head.

“I do,” he said. “I do. I have to. Because she said…she meant…she was glad I was the last Hawke left. You were dying, she was dying, Father and Bethany were gone—and here I was, the last one standing, and she was _glad_ because I was the only one of us strong enough to stand it.”

He pulled back a little to meet his brother’s eyes. “She was wrong, Aidan. I couldn’t. I _can’t_.”

Aidan gripped the back of his little brother’s neck tight, swaying a little, the fitful light catching the glassy sheen of his eyes. “It’s okay,” he promised, as earnest as Anders had ever seen him. “Mother was wrong—she was wrong sometimes, about so many things. She was wrong to say what she did to Fenris, she was wrong to say that to you, she was wrong to make you think you always had to be the strong one—”

“Aidan,” Carver began.

“No. _No_. We all were wrong about that, and I’m sorry; I’m so sorry. You don’t always have to be that way, Carver. You don’t have to, because I’m here, I’ll always be here, and I’ll…”

Carver’s laugh was harsh, broken down the middle. “You say that as you can barely keep your feet,” he said, catching Aidan’s elbow. “Did you use up all your mana tossing me around? Maker, you’re such an idiot.”

“Well you’re an idiot’s baby brother,” Aidan countered with a watery smile, “so how does that make you feel? I’m okay,” he added quickly when Carver just frowned. “I— _oh_.”

His eyes slipped shut, lashes flickering against his cheeks, and Anders could actually see the moment the pain of low mana faded—soothed away in a blissful blue-white glow. He actually dropped his gaze to his own hands, startled, certain he’d learned his lesson about feeding Aidan mana without permission…

…and realized that it wasn’t him.

It was Fenris.

Fenris was feeding him mana, healing Aidan in a way even Anders never could, as if giving back in slow degrees what had been taken from him. Carver must have realized it at the same time. He sucked in a breath, watching as Fenris’s lyrium glowed—and Aidan shivered, color slowly returning to his cheeks. He looked better than he had in ages, and Anders’ mind was immediately skittering in every possible direction, wondering if it was the bond (broken, but still there) or the lyrium etched into Fenris’s skin or something else that made the mane he gave Aidan stronger than anything Anders or Merrill could have managed.

It was…it was miraculous. It went a long way toward soothing the last of his own sense of betrayal. Maker, what if Fenris could help heal Aidan in time? What if he could undo the damage he’d done?

That was something, wasn’t it? It was the start of something, at least.

“I still blame you,” Carver said, low, echoing Anders’ thoughts—but both the fury and the pain had receded to manageable hush.

Fenris jerked his chin once in acceptance. “Yes,” he said, as if he expected nothing less. As if he _wanted_ nothing less, and oh, fuck, now Anders was _empathizing_ with the bloody arsehole.

“This is every kind of fucked up,” Anders muttered, tightening his grip on Aidan’s shoulder, on the curve of Carver’s hip, holding on in a weird half-embrace as if he could scoop up all the shattered pieces and set things to right again. Fenris was just as close, still not moving away the way he would have just a few months before—and it felt like something huge had shifted between the four of them, unlikely as it was. As if maybe, finally, they were all four on even ground again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Carver said, even as Fenris muttered, “Agreed,” and Aidan laughed, breath catching on the end, as if he couldn’t believe the four of them had come here too. As if—

“Oh!” Merrill’s startled cry interrupted whatever else they might have send, sending them pulling apart immediately as if they had been caught doing something altogether too embarrassing to be shared. “Are we all hugging now? May I have a hug too?”

Aidan shoved his fingers through his hair. “Of course,” he said, wry. “And then let’s send word to Varric and Aveline and all the rest. We may as well let everyone know the news.” This was added, quieter, to Fenris.

“What news?” Merrill asked, tripping blithely past Carver and wrapping an arm around Aidan’s waist. She ticked her gaze around the room, then back at Fenris, those dark brows rising. “Oh, hello. Yes, you _are_ news. Are you finally back for good now?”

Carver jerked his chin, staring Fenris down. Anders watched as Fenris met the younger Hawke’s eyes steadily, unflinching, unwavering—letting him read whatever he wanted in those big, green eyes. “Yes,” he said, voice rough with layers of emotion. Anders watched as Fenris dropped his hand…and caught Aidan’s, fingers lacing together. “I am here for good. I am…”

He cut his gaze to the left, meeting Aidan’s, and the whole room seemed to fill with the emotion building there between them: layered with history and hope and a new promise. Fenris wet his lips. “I am home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long, I wouldn't blame anyone for forgetting that earlier in the story, just being around Fenris made Aidan's magic 10x stronger. They haven't rebonded and Aidan is still struggling with losing mana, but being around Fenris gives him a power boost.


	55. Fenris

Fenris wasn’t sure what it was he’d been expecting.

Anders throwing hissing curses at him, surely. Carver and Aveline cleaving him in two. Varric staring him down in that way he had, or Merrill calling her demons to strike him where he stood. Something, anything but…this.

The Hanged Man was unusually quiet for this time of day, all of its regulars missing from their haunts. Norah moved about the fringes of the empty main room like a ghost, casting their table nervous glances out of the corner of her eyes, and the door remained resolutely shut. It was as if all of Kirkwall had decided not to come out tonight— _this_ night, for this awkward reunion: Varric sitting at the head of the main common room table with an unreadable look on his face and a pack of battered cards shuffling expertly between his fingers.

Fenris caught Aidan’s arm before they could reach his earshot. “He arranged this,” he said—a statement, not a question. The pieces were falling into place too quickly for that.

Aidan cast him a wry look over his shoulder. “Probably,” he admitted. “Though why he had to scare everyone off instead of just letting us into his room, I have no idea.”

 _To avoid bloodshed_ , Fenris thought, grip reflexively tightening. Or, _to keep the inevitable brawl from ruining his possessions_.

But no. No, none of that felt right—not when Varric was looking at him with a tired smile, shadows beneath his eyes faded to a bruised violet. Not when Sebastian was standing with a hand lifted in greeting, as if Fenris was actually welcome back in this strange tangle of a family Aidan had created.

“This is for you,” Aidan said suddenly, and Fenris could only agree. It was becoming clear that Varric hadn’t wanted him to feel penned in, trapped by the closed quarters of his private rooms. This way, they had their privacy to talk, but Fenris also had room to _flee_ if needed.

He wouldn’t; he was done with running. But the gesture was appreciated nonetheless.

“We should join them,” Fenris murmured, sliding his hand reluctantly down Aidan’s arm. Aidan offered a warm, encouraging smile, and Fenris’s lips curved at the corners in instinctive response before he started moving again—toward the long table, with its familiar scarred face and heavy chairs. Toward the family he hadn’t realized until now just how much he’d missed. “Varric,” he said, barely hesitating before taking his seat.

“Broody,” Varric said. Aidan slid into the seat to his left, and—appearing out of nowhere, in that way she had—Isabela slouched into her own chair across the table. She winked at him, then leaned over to steal Sebastian’s cup. “Good to see you back.”

Fenris cut a quick look toward the other end of the table, where Aveline was leaning her sword against the wall and stripping off her shield. Strands of red hair fell across a flushed face, and she wasn’t looking at him. Deliberately averting her gaze? He couldn’t tell—despite her forthright nature, Aveline had always been difficult for him to read. “Is it?” Fenris asked.

She looked up at that, jaw tightening, and met his gaze head-on. Fenris tensed, waiting for… For fury, for yelling, for the warrior to launch across the table to grab him by the throat. Instead, Aveline swallowed and jerked her head in something almost like a nod before slowly—deliberately—taking her seat.

Varric was still talking, as if he hadn’t caught every moment of the tense exchange. “…of course. Can’t have a real game of Wicked Grace without you. Ho there, Anders, Carver,” he added, lifting his voice.

Fenris looked up, tensing instinctively again. Even after everything that had happened this morning, he couldn’t help but feel like there was a shoe waiting to drop there. He and Anders had never had the best of relationships, even before… Well. And Carver, of course, had always hated him; bubbling with protective rage, sensing that Fenris would be the ruin of his older brother, lashing out like a mother bear defending its cubs.

It baffled him that now Carver simply cast him a quick, heavy glance—gaze darting between him and Aidan, seated so close to Fenris’s left that their arms brushed every time he took a deep enough breath—before deliberately looking away. _Accepting_ this, them. “Varric,” he said, dropping one heavy gauntlet on the table with a resounding crash, followed quickly by the other. “I take it you’re ready to lose some gold tonight?”

“You always say that,” Anders pointed out, pitching their shoulders together in an unnaturally chummy way before sliding into his own seat. “And Varric always whittles you down to your skivvies. Not literally, unfortunately.” Anders ducked away from Carver’s playful swipe and leaned toward Varric with dancing brows. “Hey, now that I think about it—strip Wicked Grace? I’d really appreciate it if you could _actually_ get Carver down to his— Hey!” he laughed when the second swipe made contact with his bony shoulder. He rubbed the spot theatrically. “I’ll have you know that hurt.”

Carver rolled his eyes, flopping down in the chair next to Anders’—close. Too close. “I barely touched you.”

Anders waggled his brows again. “Well, you could change that anytime, you know.”

“ _Anders,”_ Carver hissed, but Isabela was already hooting.

“Oh ho, look at the pair of lovebirds we have tonight,” she said, resting her chin on a fist and fluttering her lashes at Carver’s red-faced glower. Anders simply mirrored the gesture and batted his long lashes right back. “Fenris-and-Aidan and Anders-and-Carver; the four of you’ve _finally_ had your heads pried out of your asses, hmm? Take notes, big girl,” Isabela added, tipping her head toward Aveline. “If these four idiots have managed to figure it out, surely you’re not _completely_ hopeless.”

Aveline shot her a glare. “Shut your face,” she said, but the words didn’t have their usual sting. She was too busy studying Carver—who was turning as red as the favor Fenris had once tied around his wrist—before sliding her gaze over to Anders, then Aidan, then back to Fenris. Taking their measure, one after the other, as if unraveling a puzzle. Or perhaps unraveling how she felt about the image it made as the pieces fell together. “I am…glad for you,” Aveline finally settled on, though it was anyone’s guess who she was talking to.

“I’m glad for us, too,” Aidan said, encompassing the whole room in his statement. “So,” he added, looking around. Merrill was settling into her usual seat, smiling brightly when she met his gaze, and Trouble had found his place by the fire. The whole lot of them were gathered for what felt like the first time in an age. “Shall we play?”

“Are we _really_ playing strip Wicked Grace?” Merrill asked. “I would, but oh, I really don’t know if Isabela wore enough for that—do you?”

Varric snorted and drew the shuffled deck together with a _snap_. “Daisy,” he said, “the day Rivaini needs more layers for a game of Grace is the day I grow a beard and start raising nugs. Don’t worry, Sebastian,” he added, dealing out cards with dexterous fingers. “Everyone’s keeping their pants on…”

“Oh, here we go,” Aidan groaned, sotto.

“… _for now_.” The wink the dwarf shot Fenris was comically broad and calculated in its warmth, its inclusion. As if Varric were pulling him in on the joke, making a showy display of his acceptance. Forcing the whole room to see Fenris as one of them again—as if he had never left.

 _A kindness I do not deserve,_ Fenris thought, hesitating before forcing himself to pick up his hand of cards. He fanned them out, aware of the way everyone was subtly watching him, weighing him, trying to guess what was going on inside his head and heart and, and, and…

Aidan’s hand fell on his thigh, hidden beneath the table. He gave the ironbark-hard muscle there a gentle squeeze. “It’s all right,” he murmured against the shell of Fenris’s ear. Despite the nerves still coiled tight in his belly, the whisper of that heated breath made Fenris shiver. “They’re happy to see you, Fenris. You’ve been missed.”

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps not. Perhaps they had simply missed this semblance of normalcy, with Aidan Hawke there as their shining golden center—the sun around which the whole lot of them revolved. Perhaps they would not have welcomed Fenris back if it hadn’t have been for Aidan’s hand on his thigh, Aidan’s smile curving his lips, Aidan’s determined joy keeping them all at peace.

Again, perhaps. Perhaps not. But then, perhaps it didn’t actually matter.

“As I missed them,” Fenris said, just loud enough for anyone to hear, if they wished. It was the only olive branch he knew how to offer.

“All right,” Varric said, fanning out his cards in a showy gesture. “If we are finished making Junior blush, how about we try a hand or two and see if we can all still remember the rules?”

Carver snarled something under his breath and Anders gave a breathless laugh, leaning briefly against his side. Sebastian caught Fenris’s gaze and smiled, warm and wide and guileless. Somehow, _somehow_ , everything was all falling back into place, and his heart felt as if it could burst from his chest with the joy of it all.

 _It is true_ , Fenris thought, clearing his throat and refocusing on his hand. Aidan gave his thigh one last squeeze before settling both elbows on the table, brow furrowed in its usual line of concentration. _I really have come home_.

It felt, quite frankly, like a miracle—a dream. But venhedis, even if this weren’t real—if he had died on that sandy beach before Taran Trevelyan had found him, and his soul was cast adrift in the Fade, ringed by desire demons on all sides…he was content. He was more than content.

He was _happy_.

And that seemed like its own sort of miracle he could never hope to deserve.

They played a half-dozen hands, Varric casually chatting the whole time to keep conversation flowing. Any lingering tension faded as time passed and gradually the whole lot of them were laughing and joking around as easily as if no time had passed at all.

Fenris found himself relaxing as the hours passed and the rounds of ale kept flowing. By the time early evening had pitched into night, he felt almost good again—a little buzzed, a little flushed, leaning against Aidan more and more as if drawn like a lodestone to his warmth.

“Norah!” Isabela called, waving her only partly-empty mug around. Drops of golden ale spilled across the table—and a politely sputtering Sebastian—falling across her fan of face-up cards like rain. “If I die of thirst over here, it’ll be on you!”

“Finish what you’ve got, Rivaini,” Varric said dryly, never once looking up from his own cards; only he, Aidan and Anders were still in this round. “And maybe then you can think about dying of thirst.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Pfft, shows what you know.”

Carver huffed a breath. “Let me guess,” he said. “You started drinking before you got here.”

Isabela leaned forward, loose dark hair falling across her cheeks, heavy cleavage nearly spilling out the front of her low bodice as if daring him to steal a glance. His gaze didn’t even waver. “ _Some_ of us,” she began—words slurring slightly at the edges, which was…alarming, now that Fenris was paying attention. Isabela could hold her liquor like a Tevinter cask; it wasn’t like her to get sloppy drunk even when she put her mind to it. “Have things on our minds…Junior. _Some_ of us—” She pressed a hand across the heavy gold covering the tops of her breasts and _still_ Carver didn’t take the bait, eyes locked with hers, “—have _shit_ we have to deal with.”

“And _some_ of us,” Anders cut in, leaning one elbow on the table and offering a crooked smile, “know better than to ask for details.”

She scoffed, leaning back again, all feline grace. “Oh, you’re both no fun anymore,” Isabela said—but there was something to her voice that gave Fenris pause. It seemed like this was more than ‘Bela toying with Carver the way she often used to; there was something real and raw shivering beneath her playful tone.

He frowned, watching her, but she wasn’t looking at him. Him _or_ Aidan, now that he was noticing. In fact, she was actively avoiding Aidan’s gaze and had been for most of the evening, squirming away from full contact as slippery as a snake and twice as likely to show its fangs if pressed.

 _What is wrong, Isabela?_ Fenris wondered, frowning down at the table, hating that he didn’t already know the answer. Isabela often came to his mansion to chat about inconsequentialities that always seemed to shape up into something bigger than their parts. If he had stayed… If he hadn’t been such a coward…

Aveline pushed back from the table with a sudden _thump_. “Stop bellowing,” she snapped, snagging Isabela’s mug (now more empty than not, a good portion of ale scattered across the table and hard-packed earth floor.) “I’ll get your cup refreshed.”

“Why, big girl,” Isabela purred, lounging back with a contented smile. She twined her arms over her head and stretched, flashes of bare thigh exposed. “I knew deep down you cared.”

“Tell yourself that,” Aveline said. She gathered up a few other empty mugs easily.

Merrill popped up to her feet. “You need another set of hands!” she said brightly. “Oh, look, I have two.” She waved them teasingly before snagging her own empty mug.

Aveline frowned. “Fenris will help me,” she said.

Merrill cocked her head; Fenris looked up in surprise; even Isabela straightened, dark brows climbing at the other woman’s abrupt tone. Aveline had the grace to flush. “If he’s willing,” she added gruffly.

Fenris rose. “I am,” he said. He ignored Merrill’s anxious eyes as he took the mug from her hands, gathering up one or two others, refusing to meet Aidan’s searching gaze. His heart began to pick up speed again, but otherwise he felt unexpectedly calm. _I knew it could not be this simple_ , he reminded himself, falling in behind the guardswoman. He heard the scrape of a chair, followed by Varric’s low, “Let her say her piece, kid. It won’t all be settled until she does.”

He didn’t, wouldn’t allow himself to look over his shoulder. Instead, he straightened his spine and followed Aveline to the bar, willing to take whatever abuse she wished to throw at him—knowing this was the price he had to pay. And, Maker, but he’d pay it again and again and again if he had to, gladly. He’d keep paying it day after day if it meant staying by Aidan’s side.

 _I am here_ , Fenris thought, setting his mugs down on the sticky bar and half-turning to meet Aveline’s steady, steely gaze. _I am ready. Say what you must_.

“I wanted to speak to you before the night was through,” Aveline said, going straight for the heart of it in that way she had. “I don’t want this buried between us.”

“I understand,” he said; his voice was pure gravel, but he cleared his throat and continued. “I would not wish you to hold your tongue.”

She studied him for a long moment, red brows drawn into a frown—then, abruptly, nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I will speak plainly, so there can be no misunderstanding between us. Aidan Hawke is my friend. He is as close to a brother as I will ever have. He was with me on the day Wesley died, and it is because of him and his family that I am even here. I owe them my life; I owe them _more_ than my life, and I will not stand idly by if he is threatened in any way.”

Fenris was silent.

“I hesitated before, telling myself it didn’t concern me. That it would work itself out. That the both of you would figure out a way through this mess. Voices and the Fade and magic and…I don’t claim to fully understand what it all means—I still don’t—but I do know this.” Aveline moved a step closer, radiating quiet threat. Her gaze was steady, her voice pitched low. “ _You_ threatened his safety. _You_ threatened his life. _You_ nearly took my shield-brother from me. We have all of us lost a great deal over the years, and I refuse to go through another death if I can prevent it, so this time I won’t hesitate.”

Fenris was silent.

Aveline’s gaze swept his face, as if she were trying to read the emotions hidden there. It was instinct to harden up under that searching gaze, to hide himself behind a blank mask the way he had become accustomed to with Hadriana, Denarius, but Fenris dug his nails into his palms and fought to remain vulnerable.

Venhedis, but it went against every instinct blaring inside him, but he needed to do it. He _needed_ Aveline to see him, all of him, exactly as he was: the guilty supplicant, the wounded lover, the, the, the desperately hopeful fool he had become. It didn’t matter than Aidan claimed half the guilt—in his heart of hearts, Fenris couldn’t accept that it was anything but his fault.

And by the Maker, he wanted to do this _right_.

That piercing gaze softened, as if Aveline had managed to read even a small measure of his desperate hope. “If you are here in Kirkwall in full honesty,” she said, gentler now, “if your intentions are true—then you are welcome. You deserve to be happy, Fenris. You deserve my sword at your back, not your throat, and I will fight to my last breath to defend you both. But if you are still uncertain, by the Maker, you _will_ keep your distance from Hawke, or you will answer to me. I will not lose him too.”

Fenris swallowed, feeling like his heart was trapped in his throat. The rest of their friends—the Hanged Man—all of Kirkwall seemed so very far away. It was just the two of them here, now, as he spoke words that felt like an oath on his tongue. “I would not hurt him,” he said, voice thick with gravel and heavy with meaning. “I _will_ not hurt him. I will not leave him side again, I swear it.”

Aveline’s smile was small, but it broke something inside of him—some last fear he’d been harboring, the last shiver of tension as he waited for Hawke’s friends to turn against him. Somehow, against the odds, Aidan had been right: they truly were accepting him back, as if…

As if he belonged with them. As if he’d always belonged.

What a startling thought.

“I am glad to hear it,” Aveline was saying, offering a hand. Fenris fumbled to meet her, and they clasped forearms in the Ferelden way, grip firm and remarkably steadying. Her smile was growing, catching in her eyes. “You know I’d do the same for you, don’t you? Kick the shit out of anyone who tried to mess with you?”

Fenris blinked, startled.

Aveline just tipped her head. “A girl can never have too many shieldbrothers.” She squeezed his forearm, then let go, turning to grab the mugs and tankards Norah had filled while neither had been looking. “Come, let’s deliver these and see where the last hand fell. The party’s more or less breaking up, by the way,” she added with a tip of her head. “I suspect no one would mind if you and Aidan wanted to slip away.”

Fenris glanced back toward the table just as Aidan was looking up; their gazes met, held, froze there as if by some spell he couldn’t bring himself to resist. There was a question in Aidan’s grey eyes and worry in the furrow of his brow—but it released, relaxing slowly as Fenris quirked his mouth into a subtle smile.

Almost shyly, Aidan began to smile back.

“ _Go_ ,” Aveline said with a sisterly put-upon air, nudging his shoulder. “I’ll handle the rest of these drunken louts.”

Grateful, relieved, _happy_ , Fenris stumbled back toward the table. He set the mugs down blindly, leaving the rest of them to sort it out, and moved around the table as if drawn by a current to Aidan’s side. Aidan was already turning in his chair, face tilted up, lips parting on all those questions Fenris could read in his eyes ( _Are you okay? What did she say? What can I do to help?_ ). It was the most natural thing in the word to dig his fingers into inky black curls and tug his head back further—the lean in and catch the flow of words before they could be given shape, tongue stroking deep into Aidan’s mouth as if he could steal away this last lingering worry.

 _It is all right_ , he tried to say with the kiss, slicking their tongues together deep, deeper, hothothot and gorgeously wet. _We are all right_.

Aidan made a soft, torn noise in the back of his throat, responding instinctively to the kiss. He half-rose in his seat, fingers of one hand curling into the collar of Fenris’s armor, the other dropping to his waist. He could feel those clever fingers even through layers of leather and cloth, igniting fire low in his belly; making him press closer with a shiver; wanting—

“ _Ugh_ ,” Carver said, throwing his cards at them. They fluttered uselessly across the table in a strange snowfall. “Would you two cut that out? Some of us don’t want to watch you pervy louts.”

“Some of us very much _do_ ,” Isabela purred, teasing, resting her chin on her fist and batting her long lashes.

Aidan broke the kiss with a laugh, one arm sliding around Fenris’s waist when he would have pulled away. He shot Carver an obscene gesture, grinning wide as Carver rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated gagging face. Settled back in her chair, Aveline watched them all with a pleased smile, and Varric was tipped back in his chair and smirking—mentally taking notes, if Fenris didn’t miss his guess.

It was all so familiar and good and _necessary_ —just as much a part of what made Fenris _himself_ as the scars and the lost memories and the echo of chains. Perhaps, now, finally, even more so.

Feeling flushed inside, full to bursting with a riot of unnamable emotions, Fenris leaned close to whisper in Aidan’s ear. “Take me home,” he said, grip tightening about the back of Aidan’s neck. He stroked his thumb up the sensitive nape once, letting his thumbnail scrape soft skin.

Aidan shivered, as responsive as ever. He nodded, lower lip caught between his teeth, a delicate flush spreading across his cheeks. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the blare of their friends— _almost,_ yet not quite. But then, Fenris was sure he would always hear Aidan, feel him, know he was around, no matter what. Bonded or no, this man had seeped into his skin and bones. He’d made him feel safe, he’d made him feel whole, he’d made him feel like he’d never been broken to begin with.

Maker, he loved this man.

“Yes?” Fenris echoed, wanting to hear the rest.

Aidan simply turned his head, pressing a kiss to the bared skin of Fenris’s wrist. They drew in a sharp breath together—let it out slowly, in unison. He could have sworn their very hearts were beating as one. “Yeah,” Aidan said, words a hot curl of breath against Fenris’s skin. “Let’s go home.”


	56. Aidan

They’d barely made it past the first alley—hung with shadows and smelling vaguely of stale ale and piss—before Fenris was catching him about the hips and urging him back, back, back against the nearest wall. Aidan gave a breathless laugh, lost in that first hot kiss as their bodies crashed together. He dug his fingers into silver hair and arched against lithe muscle and let himself be pressed _hard_ to stone—feet lifting from the uneven cobblestones for a dizzying moment, heart swelling painfully in his chest.

The _noise_ Fenris made—the way his tongue stroked deep into Aidan’s mouth—the hungry jerk of his hips and the gentle-yet-urgent way he dug his fingers into flesh was like the first spark of wildfire. All of Aidan caught alight, and his laugh sank into a heady moan as he pushed even closer, urging Fenris to push _back_.

_Yes_ , he thought, scraping his nails across the other man’s scalp, tugging at his hair. _Yes, yes, Maker yes_. He pressed against all that muscle with a sinuous twist, loving the way Fenris tightened his grip and dragged him harder against him, lifting him off his feet again. The kiss went scalding hot, gloriously messy, as he braced himself against Fenris’s weight and let his hips be driven back against the wall—let one wrist be caught and slammed over his head…then gently, _gently_ caressed as the kiss softened, melting into a series of apologetic bites and licks and breathless, lingering kisses.

So, so incredibly sweet; violence caged by endless emotion.

“I,” Fenris murmured, husky, tracing Aidan’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. Fenris caught his lower lip between his teeth and tugged, sucking away the sting at Aidan’s low whine. His thumb kept stroking along the pulse racing at Aidan’s bared inner wrist, slowly slowly slowly even as his grip tightened in unmistakable possession. “Hawke, _Aidan_ , I cannot—”

Aidan soothed his free hand down the curve of Fenris’s skull, fingertips mapping out the delicate nape. Lower still, dipping into the collar of his shirt, tracing over the knobs of his spine. “Mm?” he said, tilting his face for another kiss. He probably should have protested the rough treatment—knew all it would take was a single word and Fenris would be stumbling back with nothing but apologies—but _fuck_ , it felt good. The rough rasp of stone behind him and Fenris in front, eyes wide and frankly idolatrous in the moonlight.

“I love you,” Aidan said, as simply as he could. As honest. Fenris let out a slow, serrated breath, leaning in until their foreheads were pressed together. He was semi-hard, growing erection hot against Aidan’s hip, but in this moment he was still as any statue—breath gusting hot, lashes flickering, lips parted. _Close_ , so close, he became Aidan’s entire world.

_Be careful_ , Aidan thought, reflexively wary of the desperate _joy_ winging inside his chest—the fervent devotion in Fenris’s eyes. This path had led them both toward deep waters before. Then, shoving those last lingering threads of fear away, determined not to drown: _Be free_.

They wouldn’t repeat mistakes. They’d moved past all that. This was the Fenris, the Leto, he had known and loved so very long; how could he not give himself over to that? Violence and tenderness, hope and despair, trust writ clear across his face as Aidan gently broke free of his grip and cupped his jaw with his newly freed hand. Holding him so tenderly, he may as well have reached into Fenris’s chest to curl his fingers around his heart; he swore he could feel it pulsing beneath his fingertips.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Aidan,” Fenris breathed. Then, again, eyes squeezing shut: “ _I cannot_.”

Cannot what? Stop? Let go? Restrain himself?

Aidan smiled and bridged that last minute gap between them. He brushed the tip of his tongue across Fenris’s trembling lower lip, loving the way the other man gasped and surged up with sudden, barely-leashed desperation. “Then don’t,” he said, but the words were lost, swallowed, breathed back into him as their tongues tangled slick and hot and increasingly needy. Fenris drove his hips forward, and all it took was a twist of Aidan’s body and their cocks were _grinding_ together—hot, hard, _fuck_ —sending sparks exploding through his body.

He gasped, arched, grip on the back of Fenris’s neck tightening even as he wrapped a leg firmly around his stuttering hips, pulling him into the valley of his thighs. It felt, _Maker_ , so good. The rhythmic pull of Fenris’s mouth, tasting of familiar ale, blue-white flickers of lyrium lighting their little alleyway, drawing curious stares. Andraste take him, but they were so exposed—people could _see_ —and all Aidan wanted to do was drop downthe heady rut of Fenris’s body and mouth along the increasingly insistent bulge of his cock.

The thought heated his blood until he was keening in the back of his throat, head falling back. Exposed, welcoming, eager for the hot brand of Fenris’s mouth as he bit his way across Aidan’s jaw to his exposed jugular.

_We’ve been here before_ , he thought suddenly—and the memory of Anders’ sputters, of Carver’s aggrieved sigh, was enough to have a laugh bubbling out of him.

Fenris went still, lips against Aidan’s throat, hands gripping his hips. Aidan could practically feel the question on the air.

He grinned and turned his head, tugging gently at Fenris’s hair. “I’m just thinking that with our luck, _all_ of our friends will stumble across us this time.”

Fenris gave a soft chuff of laughter, hot against his skin. He pressed a kiss to Aidan’s racing pulse, then just below his ear, nosing up into a riot of black curls. “Mm, you are not wrong,” he murmured; the low rasp of his voice was enough to make Aidan shiver. “It is too bad I do not seem to have the strength of will to let you go.”

“Will you follow where I lead instead?” Aidan said. He dropped his leg, reluctantly letting himself settle on the broken cobblestones again—shivering at the subtle drag of their bodies and the low growl that earned him. “Will you give chase if I run?”

“Yes,” Fenris said, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. His eyes were so big, so luminous, that Aidan could clearly see the way his pupils flared. If it were only a little darker, they’d glow like coals in the night. “I enjoy following you.”

He shivered at the promise wending through Fenris’s words. “All right then,” he said, leaning in as if to bring their mouths together. When Fenris pressed close in reaction, Aidan grinned and ducked, spinning out and away from him—using the training Varric and Isabela had been drilling into his head since the accident. He gracefully stumbled a few feet away, _laughing_ at Fenris’s low noise of surprise…and shivering when that protest turned into a warning growl.

“Catch me if you can,” Aidan said, already turning on the ball of his foot and _running_. He was aware of Fenris cursing and giving chase; of curious onlookers glancing up from their own shadowy corners; of cutpurses on the roofs above, knives glinting a half-second before someone hissed, “ _No, idiot, that’s Hawke_.”

In Kirkwall, a reputation was a powerful thing; allies were more powerful still, especially with friends like Aidan’s. He took a corner hard, ducking away as Fenris swiped at him, close on his heels—teeth bared and eyes gleaming and powerful enough to frighten away even the stupidest Dog Lord. The sight of him was enough to make Aidan’s heart lurch…and very nearly enough to send him crashing into the next hard turn.

“Maker’s _balls!_ ” Aidan said, pushing away from the near-miss, laughing. Behind him, Fenris chuckled and deliberately slowed his pace just enough to keep from catching him. That, Aidan was certain, Fenris was saving for the very end. For when he could push Aidan up against any number of walls and have him for keeps.

He shivered, stomach tightening, and hurried his pace.

They raced through the old city and up the steps toward Hightown. As they left the poorer districts, the streets grew emptier and emptier. Huge estates stood dark, the household long since gone to bed. Only one or two lights shone down, candles flickering at vine-framed windows. Aidan zeroed in on his own warmly glowing window, putting in a last burst of effort—racing just as fast as he could manage, heart hammering, breaths heaving, anticipating building as he flung himself across the final neat cobblestones and shoved open the huge door.

It _banged_ against the far wall, rousing Trouble from his nap before the banked fire. Aidan laughed, skidding through the vestibule, hyperaware of Fenris at his heels. The door _slammed_ behind them, and Trouble gave a bemused bark as Fenris finally, _finally_ caught Aidan’s wrist and yanked him around.

He went stumbling, still laughing, crashing forward as Fenris jerked him close; mouths meeting in breathless abandon, fingers in hair, ripping at clothes, tongues twining. Aidan sagged against Fenris’s weight, arms going around his neck and nails dragging across his shoulders as he gave himself over willingly, happily, overflowing with the need to be touched. Kissed. _Fucked_ —here, if Fenris wanted, across the Amell hearth in full sight of the main door, ready to be claimed in every way possible.

Fenris made a noise deep in his chest, as if he could sense Aidan’s willing submission. He took a step forward, then another, then _another_ , walking Aidan blindly toward the main room, never once breaking the increasingly desperate kiss. Clever fingers tugged restlessly at Aidan’s dark hair before sliding down to pull at his simple leathers—unknotting ties and loosening straps as they crossed the wide face of the great room floor.

Trouble gave a huffing breath and padded away; a log broke in the hearth, sparks rising in a musical scale of subtle pops and cracks. Fenris yanked free a corner of Aidan’s jerkin and shoved his hand up beneath underarmor to find hot flesh, _purring_ in a way that had Aidan’s toes curling.

He broke the kiss, gasping, seconds before Fenris pushed him back that one final step—rocking him against the hard lip of his writing table. They’d crossed the entire great hall in a blur of heat, and Aidan gave a breathless laugh as Fenris pushed him up onto the table, loose papers scattering across the floor. “Someone is eager,” he murmured, throaty.

Fenris looked up, dark brows knit together, and deliberately slid his free hand between Aidan’s thighs. He cupped the hot press of his erection, palm rubbing _hard_ against him, and Aidan cursed and jerked up, legs falling open in shameless welcome. Fuck fuck fuck, that felt amazing; he couldn’t stop himself from pressing up into a slow, aching _grind_.

Fenris smirked. “Someone is eager,” he parroted, smug—one hand shoved up Aidan’s jerkin, the other stroking maddeningly slowly down the seam of his pants. He scraped his fingernails across straining leather, and Aidan cursed again, grabbing at narrow shoulders and yanking him closer, losing the high whine of need deep into Fenris’s throat. He felt…

Maker, but he felt good. Pleasure unfolding bit by bit, soothing as any healing spell. It had taken them so long to reach this point, he could hardly believe they were really here. And yet he had never felt more alive; it was as if something inside him woke at Fenris’s touch, his kiss. Not the bond, but something even deeper.

Love.

Void take him, but he _loved_ this elf.

He tried to telegraph as much with the eager stroke of his tongue, hands restlessly mapping out Fenris’s body. Aidan hooked one thigh around a trim waist, heel digging into the small of Fenris’s back. Then, at the low rumble of approval, he scooted toward the edge of the desk and wrapped his other leg around Fenris, pulling him into the cradle of his thighs. Fenris jerked his hand free to catch himself against the table—more papers, an inkwell, a spare dagger scattering across the flagstones—and rocked up at the first drag of their erections. He was, fuck, so hard. So _fucking_ hard, and Fenris just as needy against him.

_This isn’t going to take long_ , Aidan thought with what little coherence he had left. They both wanted too much, for too long.

He broke the kiss to gasp a breath against Fenris’s mouth; trembling. Arching up against him with little hitching rocks of his hips, riding out each full-body shudder that racked the other man’s body. It was hot enough to have him melting, arching, _aching_ , hands moving with fervent restlessness. Aidan kissed and nipped his way down Fenris’s jawline, loving the way Fenris tipped his head back in welcome—exposing his throat with full trust that rang louder than any confession of love. _Yes_ , he thought, dragging his teeth, the tip of his tongue, along the line of his throat; tracing familiar lines of lyrium and riding out the bucking shiver of Fenris’s body.

“Aidan,” Fenris whined, both hands dropping to Aidan’s waist, fingers digging just shy of too hard into flesh.

Aidan caught Fenris’s earlobe between his lips—his teeth—swirling his tongue up the gentle taper of his ear. “Take me upstairs,” he murmured, and bit back a moan when he was _immediately_ lifted as if he weighed next to nothing. Tumbling forward, boneless and needy, hips still hitching forward as that coal of heat burned brighter and brighter in his stomach. Aidan tightened his thighs around Fenris’s waist, holding on as the hall spun and blurred; he pressed his face into the curve of Fenris’s neck and sucked deep bruises against dark skin as Fenris all but vaulted up the steps.

He wanted; he _wanted_. His skin was hungry to be touched, and he felt like he might go flying apart at any moment. The way Fenris held him close—tight—possessive and relenting all at once, giving and demanding, thrummed through him. It was everything he had wanted and never thought they’d be able to have; love and trust and this, _this_ , shared and vulnerable and hopeful in every measure.

The door was pushed open and slammed shut behind them and before Aidan could take another breath, he was being laid across the bed with shocking tenderness—Fenris’s trembling hands gentle on him as they soothed down his sides and plucked away the last of the straps holding his leathers into place. They parted at the first sinuous arch of his spine, falling away when he rose just enough to slither back amongst the pillows. The thin underarmor left nothing to the imagination, clinging to lithe muscle and the urgent ache of his cock. Standing at the end of the bed, Fenris’s eyes dropped down Aidan’s body, taking him in with a hungry sweep; his tongue snaked out, wetting his lower lip, and Aidan moaned and let himself melt back in instant supplication, waiting.

Wanting.

_Aching_.

“Fenris,” he said, voice rough, and that was all it took to pull Fenris out of his momentary trance.

Fenris shook himself once, hard, then reached up to begin yanking at his own clothes. Quickly. _Violently_. Eyes fixed on Aidan with a hunger that made him shiver, desire coiling low in his gut. He’d always loved the way Fenris watched him—like Aidan was a flame eating up all the oxygen in the room. Like it took every ounce of that incredible self-possession, that control coiled up in the tight clench of Fenris’s muscles, to keep from touching him. Taking him. Hard and gasping and oh-fuck-desperate.

Aidan felt a little desperate himself. He sucked in a breath, grabbing at the collar of his underarmor and ripping it off. The _sound_ Fenris made at the first glimpse of bare flesh sent shivers through him. He curled his toes into the blankets even as he lifted his hips off the mattress, shoving the loose leggings down—hard cock bouncing free to slap against his belly, leaving a smear of pre-come along the trail of dark hairs.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris gasped, ripping his own dark leggings down, kicking them aside even as he climbed up onto the foot of the bed. Those huge green eyes were locked on Aidan’s body, blown wide until all he saw was black. His lips were parted, slick, breaths heaving in and out in an unsteady pant as he _crawled up the bed_ toward Aidan—unselfconsciously sexual, sending Aidan’s thoughts scattering like snow flurries.

Fenris dropped his head as he went, pressing a kiss to Aidan’s knee, then a little higher, then a little _higher_ ; up up up his thigh, hot breath fanning across shuddering skin. Aidan fell fully back against the pillows, arching again, hips digging hard against the mattress as he gave in to the full-body writhe. Maker, he was already so hard it was a maddening ache; he’d wanted this so long, he thought he might go flying apart with anticipation.

“Fenris,” he gasped, head falling back at the first sucking bite against his inner thigh. Fenris loved to use his teeth, loved to—to _hold Aidan down_ , fingers suddenly gripping his narrow hips and pushing him against the give of the mattress, keeping him from bucking. “ _Fenris!”_ Aidan bit his bottom lip, trying to push up toward his lover’s mouth, but Fenris just growled and held him still.

Trapped.

Frozen in his grip, beneath the hot brand of his mouth as he swirled his tongue up a silvery scar, chin brushing ever-closer toward Aidan’s cock. It felt—Maker, incredible. Maddening. Enough to make him curse and laugh a little, emotion mixing up inside his chest. He loved this elf _so much_ he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to handle it…other than maybe to reach down and curl his fingers lightly in silver hair as he whispered, “So good. Fenris, _ah_ , you feel so good.”

Fenris hummed in response, leaving a soft, sucking kiss to the crease of Aidan’s thigh, then up to drag his teeth along a prominent hipbone. Aidan could feel the deep rumble in his lover’s chest where it was pressed against his legs, and he drew his knees up reflexively, trapping Fenris in return.

No, no, not trapping—cradling, surrounding, protecting, his knees gently gripping the lean curve of Fenris’s flank, his nails scratching lightly along his scalp as he twisted and moaned and unraveled beneath him. When Fenris swirled his tongue down Aidan’s lower belly, he thought— _oh_ —he thought he might be able to come just from this. The slow tease after so long would surely be enough to send him over the edge, every part of him straining toward Fenris.

But then Fenris was loosening his grip and dragging his nails down Aidan’s hips—leaving another set of silvery lines in their wake—as he turned his head, and, “ _Oh!_ ” Aidan cried, nearly jolting them off the bed at the first touch of Fenris’s tongue to his cock.

Hot hot hot _shit_ hot, swirling up to lave the cockhead before stroking down again. Fenris’s pleased rumble was nearly lost beneath Aidan’s sharp cry, and it felt like he was dissolving—thoughts, mind, body, everything drifting away beneath the achingly slow laps.

“I,” Aidan managed, panting. His grip tightened on Fenris’s hair before he forced himself to let go, fumbling blindly for the sheets; he needed something to hold on to, needed to keep himself as still as possible, and didn’t want to risk hurting his Voice, but _oh Maker_ he— He was—

Fenris whined low in his throat, one hand lifting to curl around the base of Aidan’s cock, stroking firmly even as he took the soft head into his mouth. He sucked at the very tip, teasing the slit before gliding down down, taking a third of him with an easy swallow. The _heat_ , the, the, _fuck_ ; Aidan choked on a breath and fought not to rock up into the tighthotamazing welcome of his mouth. He could feel himself begin to tip over _already_ , keyed up by inexperience and time and need.

Desperate, Aidan dropped a hand between them, pushing Fenris’s fingers aside. He wrapped his own hand around the base of his cock and squeezed brutally hard, fighting the rush of pleasure before it could overtake him. Fenris made a low noise of protest, pulling back off him with an obscenely loud, _wet_ sound; his breath was coming in rapid, heaving pants. “Aidan,” he managed, gravel-rough voice utterly _wrecked_. “What are you—”

Aidan blindly reached with his other hand, grabbing at Fenris’s shoulder and tugging him up. Fenris resisted for a moment—but _only_ a moment, body dragging against Aidan’s in a perfect glide as he let himself be pulled into a heated kiss.

They melted together as easily as if they were always meant to be this way, Aidan’s arms going around Fenris’s neck, his legs sliding around his trim hips, his body arching until they were pressed together as tight as he could manage—a long, hot, rough glide of skin on skin, scars on scars, too blindingly good to be real.

And yet, fuck, there was nothing _more_ real in that moment. Fenris growling deep in his chest, clawing at Aidan’s dark curls as he jerked forward once, driving their aching cocks together. The crack of the headboard against the wall. The _taste_ , bone-deep and familiar, as tongues frantically stroked together. The scent of ozone on the air as his powers slipped from his control and the faint flicker of Fenris’s markings beginning to light and—

—and deep in his chest, that broken well curling with vines, flowers blooming against the shattered stone and tracing green.

Aidan bore down against that breathless, aching sense of the bond seeking to re-mend, not ready, not ready, not— He broke the kiss and sucked in a breath, fighting to ignore the _emotion_ filling him to bursting and instead focus on the moment, the sensation, the pure visceral thrill of Fenris kissing, _biting_ down the arc of his neck, hips moving in a stuttering rhythm that spoke of boundless desperation.

_Not yet_ , Aidan told himself, tightening his legs around Fenris’s hips, dragging his nails down the tightly clenched muscles of his back. They were moving together hot, hard, a little wild, and void, _void_ take him, that was enough for now; that was more than he’d ever thought he’d have again. _It isn’t time yet_.

“Fenris,” Aidan managed to gasp, pressing up, giving himself wholly to the sensation. He caught his own fingers in silver-white hair and tugged Fenris’s mouth back to his, licking inside greedily, hungrily, swallowing Fenris’s low cry as he bucked up his hips and fought to find a rhythm. The broken bond flared within his chest—a living thing—but he, _they_ , were more than soulmates; they didn’t have to give themselves over to that unless they wanted to. _Until_ they wanted to.

_Not yet not yet not yet_.

He sucked on Fenris’s tongue, dug his heels into the small of his back, pushed up against the hard line of his body and rocked their aching cocks together. Slick with sweat and precome, wild, a little unhinged and greedy and, and—

Aidan made a sharp noise, coiling his muscles before shoving forward—flipping them over in a tangle of skin and heat. Fenris broke the kiss as he was sprawled messily across the mattress, gasping up at him, eyes wide. Aidan paused long enough to be certain no fear lurked on his face, but Fenris just bit his lower lip and stared up at him with palpable heat, hips _grinding_ up in welcome.

He thrust back, driving Fenris’s hips against the mattress, loving the way he all but yowled in response. The bed was moving, furniture lifting as Aidan’s force powers threatened the length of his control, and their bodies were lit with continuous lightning flashes of lyrium, beautiful and painful and lost somewhere in between. _Like us_ , Aidan thought, reaching down to cup Fenris’s jaw, his other hand pressed against the mattress to hold him up—hips rocking together in ever-increasing tempo, pleasure building building, fuck, _building_ low in his belly again.

“You know I love you,” Aidan managed between ragged pants. He was so close to coming; he was so close to losing control of the forward strain of that bond. So close to saying _void take it all_ and letting them come together in every way possible despite his best intentions. The soulbond didn’t define them, but it was such a strong part of everything they’d been through that it was nearly impossible to deny; he wasn’t entirely sure in this moment why he’d wanted to deny it, even for a little while. “Fenris.” _Leto_. “I do, I love you, I will always love you.”

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris said, rising up onto his elbows to catch his mouth in a bruising kiss. They were seamed together hips to chests, pressed as tight as they could manage, pleasuring spiraling up, up. Fenris bit his lip, tugging sharply, and the pleasure-pain felt so right he could barely think, clawing his way even closer, fighting to merge them: one body, one spirit, one future. Then, whispered against his mouth, almost lost in the dizzying heights of the kiss: “ _Aidan_. Yours.”

…and he came with a startled cry.

It had been coming for so long, and yet it felt like being hit over the head with a maul; the whole world whited out, all at once expanding and narrowing down to Fenris. Aidan gasped against his mouth and rode out the shuddering waves, come hot between their bellies, muscles clenched tight as a fist. Fenris groaned and grabbed for his hips, yanking him close as he bucked up—slamming the headboard against the wall again and again in a hollow crack of wood, desperate to follow him over the edge.

_I enjoy following you_ , he’d said, and Aidan gave a laughing moan, _joy_ rushing to fill all the hollows pure need had carved into him. He cupped Fenris’s face, grinding down into his lap—hips gliding slick with come, his cock still jerking between them, heart so full it hurt.

“Come on,” he said, kissing across Fenris’s face before pressing their foreheads together. Their panting breaths mingled, combined. The broken bond hummed, straining to reform. “Come for me.”

“Aidan,” Fenris said again, something close to a prayer, before squeezing his eyes shut and finally, _finally_ losing control. He cried out, broken, shattered, coming apart at the seams as heat bloomed between their bodies, _slick_. The steady thrust of his hips went wild, jagged and a little crazed, and Aidan rode him out with a muffled whimper, watching dazed as lyrium-light blazed across their tangled limbs.

So beautiful. So, so, “Beautiful,” he breathed, stroking his fingers through Fenris’s hair. He was already coming down, able to watch with a breathless sort of wonder as Fenris flew apart beneath him. He wanted to kiss his way down the tight clench of his lover’s body; he wanted to drag his tongue through the mingled trail of come and taste them both together. He wanted to start over, immediately—to do this again and again and again, for the rest of their lives.

Funny that he thought maybe he might get that chance.

The still-unformed bond hummed beneath his skin, less desperate now, more controlled now that _he_ was more controlled. Aidan gently pushed that awareness back, locking it away inside of himself for later. Maker, yes, they would become soulmates again, but for now, they had _this_.

And this was everything he’d ever wanted.

“Aidan,” Fenris purred, long and slow, muscles beginning to loosen. Aidan refocused, meeting Fenris’s eyes—blinking open slowly, still dazed and little more than green rims about endless black. Fenris smiled up at him and leaned in to nuzzle against his collarbone; gorgeously boneless and sated and almost disarmingly sweet.

Also? Visibly drowsy.

“Oh, so you’re one of those,” Aidan teased, but he let Fenris draw him down amongst the pillows. Fenris immediately wrapped around him in a possessive-protective embrace, and the pleasure of that was enough to make his heart skip in his chest. “A little exertion and you’re ready to clock out for the night.”

“Mm,” Fenris hummed, not bothering with a reply. He pressed his lips to Aidan’s shoulder, lingering there before rubbing his cheek to the kiss. Sweeter than Aidan had ever seen him.

He knew they should probably get cleaned up before they fell asleep—knew they’d regret it bitterly later if they didn’t—but he was still too boneless and happy to move away. So he let Fenris tug him against the curve of his body and relaxed into the warmth of the embrace; body still throwing sparks, each reflexive shiver going smaller and smaller as he settled back into even breaths. _Basking_ in the heat of his lover pressed so solidly around him.

Aidan closed his eyes, resting his cheek against silver-white hair. He blew out a slow, steadying breath. “All right,” he murmured, smiling, already beginning to drift. Lost in a sea of perfect contentment. “Though when I said I wanted to stick with you forever, that wasn’t what I meant.”

Fenris lightly pinched his side and Aidan chuffed a laugh, tangling their legs together, enjoying the slide of their bodies. Deep within his chest, the still-unformed bond hummed in steady awareness, like a second heartbeat.

Like a second chance.

“Love you,” Aidan said against the shell of Fenris’s ear—and slipped easily into dreams and the Fade between one breath and the next.


	57. Aveline

The whole bloody world was coming down around her ears.

“Maker give me patience,” Aveline muttered, staring down at her overflowing desk. Ever since she had taken over the guard, she had made it her mission to keep the flow of reports moving quickly. Things weren’t like they used to be under the indifferent care of corrupt men; _she_ would bring order to Kirkwall or die trying. At least, that’s what she told herself.

But days like today?

Days like today made her wonder if it wouldn’t be better to kidnap her friends—a squirming bundle under each arm—and flee all the way back across the Waking Sea, the City of Chains be damned. But then, she’d never been very good at knowing when to quit, had she? “Or if not patience,” Aveline added with a sigh, “at least enough spite to see it all done.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to need that in spades,” someone said from her open doorway. “It’s a right mess out there today, Guard-Captain.”

Her ears heated at the sound of Donnic’s voice. Then her cheeks, her nose, her neck, all the way down to the freckled tops of her breasts. Not that he could see her breasts beneath her sensible armor. Not that she _wanted_ him to see her breasts. Not that—

Aveline did her best not to look at Donnic, gaze fixed on the unsteady pile of reports and complaints and petty bullshit that made up a good third of her mornings now. “That it is,” Aveline said; she sounded gruff. Too gruff? Oh, _Maker_.

“Do you need help with the sorting?” There was a scuff of leather against wood, a soft clank of plate mail, and Aveline bit her lower lip hard enough to sting. She felt like such a fool, but the offer had her heart winging in her chest—like she was all the way back in pigtails, punching cute boys in the face every time she couldn’t muster the words she so desperately wanted. Maker, but she was terrible at this.

 _This time_ , she thought, clearing her throat and carefully slinging off her shield and sword, _no matter what happens, no punching_. “I wouldn’t mind a second pair of hands if you’ve the time.” Aveline sat awkwardly in her chair, trying to tell herself it wasn’t creepy to watch Donnic cross her office out of the corner of her eyes.

He just… He moved with so much _grace_ , though. Not the showy swing of hips and tits, like Isabela, or the feline menace of Fenris. Not even the self-possessed way Aidan moved through the world. No, Donnic was more… He was so… He was just… He…

He…

Aveline sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose even as Donnic pulled up a chair opposite her. “Headache?” he asked, solicitous as always.

He was just so bloody wonderful, she wanted to scream. “Nothing I can’t handle,” Aveline lied, dropping her hand and trying to smile at him across the overflowing pile of reports. It felt more like a grimace. “Well. Shall we divide and conquer?”

Donnic’s return smile was far more natural. “Aye aye, ser,” he said, reaching for the first of the scrolls. His hands were big, rough, with jagged nails and a dusting of dark hair. They handled a sword like a dream, and she wondered what they would feel like sliding up the eager spread of her thighs.

Aveline bit the inside of her mouth again, grabbing a scroll blindly and hating the renewed flush that swept across her too-fair skin. _Bloody void_ , she needed to stop reading Varric’s filthy novels before her rotted brain came dribbling right out her ears. _Just focus on your work_ , she told herself—over and over and over again, refusing to think about Donnic’s smile or Donnic’s kind eyes or Donnic’s skill with a short sword or, yes, fine, even Donnic’s hands.

In fact, she was so determinedly focused that it took an unknown repetition of, “Guard-Captain? Guard-Captain? Guard-Captain? … _Aveline_ ,” before she jerked her gaze up to meet those _kind eyes_ —off-kilter and already drowning.

“ _What_?” she demanded, flustered enough to snap. This had been a terrible idea; why did she ever think she could be near this man and manage to be a reasonable human being?

He passed a scroll over to her, expression grave. “I believe you’ll want to take a look at this,” he said, not at all shaken by her flare of temper. Which just proved how bloody perfect he was.

She reached out to take the scroll, disappointed—then annoyed with herself for being disappointed—when their fingers didn’t brush. Yes, she’d definitely let Varric’s serials rot her brain; she was going to burn her copies the minute she got home.

Donnic was watching her, leaning forward slightly with a worried pucker to his brow. He seemed unusually tense, which could only mean bad news. _Make that very bad news_ , she added, noting the way his hands curled into fists. Stomach beginning to sink, embarrassment fading in the face of what was looking to be a _very_ bad day, Aveline spread open the scroll and began to read.

Her brows snapped together immediately. Her sinking stomach instantly bottomed out. When she looked up again, the flushing, flustered, yearning girl was gone, replaced by a woman all too used to staring straight into the eyes of death. “…well, _fuck_ ,” Aveline said, letting the report drop.

Donnic gave a startled, strained laugh. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. Then, “What are you going to do?”

What _was_ she going to do? What were her options?

She sat back, rubbing her hand over her face. “I have to apprehend them again,” she said, as if there truly were no other option. (Despite how desperately she wished there were.)

“They’ve taken sanctuary with the Arishok,” Donnic pointed out. “Apprehending them means facing him.”

“Then I have to face the Arishok,” she said. Aveline was proud that her voice didn’t waver, even as her thoughts tumbled together in mounting fear. Kirkwall was a qunari powder keg already. All it would take was one spark to set the whole thing blasting sky-high.

“Perhaps,” Donnic began, then slowed. Faltered. He looked away, swallowing, and she could all but taste the fear humming between them. “ _Perhaps_ , in this case, discretion truly is the better part of valor. If you order us to storm the shipyards to find the felons, I will be by your side, but… The crime they committed was…”

Aveline didn’t need him to finish. The crime those young elves committed was nothing if not understandable. _Honorable_ , even, if there was truly honor to be found in murder. (And considering what she had done over the years at Aidan Hawke’s side, Aveline couldn’t pretend to be so black-and-white when it came to justice.)

And yet: “No,” she said, feeling that headache coming on in earnest, “we cannot just let this be. This isn’t about their crime; it’s about creating precedent. If I do not apprehend them, others will follow in their footsteps. What will stop every criminal in Kirkwall from pledging themselves to the Qun if it means immunity from the law?”

Donnic sat back, hands spread, helpless. “With all due respect, Guard-Captain, I _will_ follow you in this, but… I don’t know that even the entire Kirkwall guard can go up against those qunari and hope to make it through.”

He wasn’t wrong. There was a time a few years ago when perhaps the Arishok was willing to listen to the law of this human land, but now…? Now things were different. Now it felt like all sides were just waiting for an excuse to draw first blood.

If she took her guardsmen and women with her to the docks and forced a confrontation, there would be war in the streets before the hour was through.

Thankfully, that wasn’t the only avenue open to her.

“Thank you, guardsman,” she said, looking up at meet his eyes. She could see the fear there, and the determination—the sheer will to fight at her side, if that’s what she asked. _That_. That more than the handsome face or the strong hands or even the kind eyes was what made her heart flutter in her chest. This was a man who would follow her into battle, even knowing the odds were against them; Aveline couldn’t think of anything more hopelessly romantic than that. “ _Donnic_ ,” she added, thrilling a little at the way his expression softened. “But that won’t be necessary. I have a plan.”

Aveline stood, rolling up the scroll and tucking it into a pouch at her side. She reached for her sword and shield, shrugging into the straps with ease of long practice. There was no point waiting. The rest of this work could hold for another day; _this_ could not. “Send word to the viscount,” she added, checking to make sure she had everything she needed. Healing draughts, stamina draughts, charmed gear to keep her going long after exhaustion crept in. If this did turn into a fight, she planned to be ready for it. “He needs to know we plan to face the Arishok. Should it go poorly, both the city and the castle guard should be ready to act.”

“Aye, ser,” Donnic said, standing. The way he was looking at her would have been distracting if Aveline had space in her tumbling thoughts to be distracted right now. Those eyes _shone_. “I’ll see it done. Be careful.”

He didn’t demand to know her plan; he didn’t try to talk her out of it. He had her back, no matter what. “And you as well, Donnic,” Aveline said. She offered him one final, strained smile, feeling the weight of what she was about to do hovering like a sword over her head—then she turned and strode with terrible purpose out of the palace and down the wide steps toward Hightown and the Amell estate.

For a confrontation like this, she couldn’t hope to make it on her own. She _needed_ Hawke…and every bit of charm and good luck the bastard could manage to bring with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up: we've finally reached the very last plot arc.
> 
> Oh, and if you're not reading the companion stories By Any Other Name (Inquisitor/Dorian) and Part of Your World (Warden/Alistair), you're missing out!


	58. Anders

Aidan pushed his way into the clinic far too early the next morning, looking as if he hadn’t slept all night. Considering the scent of coal smoke and smelted iron that clung to his simple dark leathers, Anders wouldn’t be surprised to hear that was entirely too true.

“I need your help,” Aidan said without preamble.

Anders sat back from his writing desk, loosened hair falling messily into his eyes. “‘ _Good morning, Anders_ ,’” he teased with a crooked smile, setting aside his quill. He’d gotten a good two hours of writing done already; it was shaping up to be a productive day. “‘ _How did you sleep?’_ Oh, very well, thank you for asking, Aidan. Better than you, I’m afraid.”

He glanced over Aidan’s shoulder, nodding greeting to Merrill, Aveline, Varric and…ah yes, Fenris. Of course. “Good morning, everyone. Or is it good night?”

“It’s good nothing right about now, Blondie,” Varric muttered, followed by Aveline’s sharp: “ _Hush_.”

Aidan pushed forward, weaving through the various tables and stocks of provisions to reach him. On closer glance, he looked even rougher than Anders had supposed; tension coiled in the tight clench of his body, and his grey eyes held enough sick worry that Anders was immediately jerking to his feet. Oh Maker, he knew that look.

“Who’s hurt?” Anders demanded. Then, stomach bottoming out: “ _Fuck_ , not Carver.”

“Not Carver,” Aidan said quickly. “Carver’s back at the Gallows; he’s _fine_. It’s…it’s not an injury. At least not yet.”

His heart—kicked up at the first clench of real fear—was still racing. “That doesn’t sound as reassuring as you might think,” Anders said, but he was already grabbing for his things. He was more or less dressed; all he needed was his belt with its many pouches (carrying lyrium, elfroot, reagents and bandages), his worn-soled boots, and a simple leather strip to keep the jagged ends of hair out of his face. Fenris was pacing in the background, he noted with half an eye. Merrill kept biting her lower lip as if she wanted to say something, and Varric rubbed between his brows the way he always did when shit was ready to hit the fan.

Aveline stood still as a statue, expression grim, grip bleached bone-white about the hilt of her sword.

“Fill me in,” Anders said, neatly tying up his hair and grabbing for his staff. It was cold to the touch, ice rune throbbing reassuringly against his palm.

“It’s the qunari,” Aidan said, at the same moment Aveline said, “It’s _Isabela_.”

The two exchanged a quick, speaking glance. Varric just rubbed his brow harder.

_Hoo boy_ , Anders thought, catching his staff in its simple harness. Whatever was actually going on appeared to be even more complicated than at first glance. “All right,” he said, falling in step with Aidan as they left the clinic. He paused just long enough to bolt the doors and check to make sure the lantern was dim. “Let’s start from the beginning, then.”

“Varric?” Aidan asked. He sounded _exhausted_ and…sad? Perhaps. Enough that Anders almost said something until he noticed Fenris edging closer, moving in stride with Aidan, his hand dropping down to drag their knuckles together. As a public display of affection, it paled in comparison to their rousing show at the Hanged Man about a week back, but it was still surprising to see.

Of course, considering how far they’d come and how far they had yet to go, just about anything between Aidan and Fenris was surprising.

“Let’s see,” Varric said, hurrying his pace to keep up. Aveline had taken point, practically racing through the Darktown filth to reach the exit. “Like all good stories, it started with two fierce warriors in an epic battle to the death.”

“Isabela and Aveline showed up at my house at the same time, each needing help,” Aidan translated.

Varric snorted. “Like I said, Hawke: two fierce warriors in an epic battle to the death. Turns out Rivaini finally tracked down that relic that’s been giving her no end of trouble. Man by the fitting moniker of Wall-Eyed Sam was arranging to hand it over to a flock of Tevinter crows for coin.”

“ _Magisters_ ,” Fenris added with a curl of his lip. No matter how he had softened toward magic in general over the past few years, it seemed his hatred for the magisterium still ran strong.

“Meanwhile,” Varric continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “turns out a couple of young elves found themselves in a spot of trouble. The stabby kind.”

Merrill hummed. “Nothing worse than being caught in the stabby kind of trouble.”

Anders chose to let that go. He ducked under a low-hanging beam, ignoring the warning creak of the steps beneath their weight. Someday all of Darktown would crumble into the sea, the rotten core of this damned city collapsing in on itself. Part of him hated the thought; another, quieter, increasingly frightening part…almost relished it.

_A reckoning_ , something that had his voice but didn’t _feel_ like a part of him whispered. _A reckoning is long past due._

He pushed that stray thought aside and focused on the square of light up ahead, where Aveline was waiting impatiently by the open door to Lowtown.

“...and what do you know, it turns out both converted to the Qun,” Varric was still explaining, unaware of the twisting paths Anders’ mind was taking. “The Arishok offered them sanctuary in light of their new religious fervor, and Aveline’s spitting nails over the unrest that shit’ll cause.” Varric sighed as he stepped out into the (comparably) clean Lowtown air, rubbing at his brow again as if he could somehow ease the headache all this mess had become. “After Petrice, the mob’s already gathering their torches and pitchforks. There’s no telling what word of the qunari protecting wanted criminals will do.”

“We don’t know the full story there, Varric,” Aidan reminded him quietly. He looked even worse in the full light of dawn; they _all_ did. Blood spattered the edges of their armor, and smudges of soot stood out as starkly as the sleep-deprived shadows beneath their eyes. Even Merrill, usually bright enough to light up any room, seemed more subdued than usual.

Anders dropped a hand to his pouch, testing the amount of elfroot he had on hand. It looked like they were going to need every bit of what he had to offer. “So Isabela went after the relic last night and we’re going to the qunari this morning,” he said. “I’m not seeing what one has to do with the other yet.”

Aidan and Varric shared a look, and Fenris glared down at the filthy ground passing beneath their feet. Well, shit; that didn’t look good. “It’s…a long story,” Aidan said delicately. “Too long for the amount of ground we’ve left to cover. The short version is that the two are very connected, and Isabela is…gone.”

“ _Gone_?” Anders asked, stumbling to a stop. The rest of the group—minus Aveline, who was now more than two blocks away and plowing determinedly on toward the docks—paused to look at him. “What do you mean Isabela is _gone_?”

“She left,” Aidan said. “Last night…or early this morning, really. We went with her to get the relic, and the magisters were there waiting.” Fenris curled his upper lip again, shifting so he was closer to Aidan, as if he could somehow form a shield between him and that hated word. “So, it turns out, were a group of qunari warriors. There was a fight, the man with the relic ran—”

“Wall-Eyed Sam,” Varric interrupted. “Can’t forget a name like that.”

“—and Isabela left the battle to give chase. By the time we made it out after her, she was just… _gone_.”

Merrill hummed again, sadly. “She left a note on his corpse,” she said. “It was a nice note! Very sad. A little hard to read with all the blood, though.”

“So Rivaini took off with some holy relic the qunari’ll literally kill to get their hands on,” Varric recapped, “which probably could have ended this whole mess in one blow, and we’re left trying to convince the Arishok that he can’t go above the law. Oh, and don’t declare war on all of Kirkwall while you’re at it, please and thank you.”

Anders was silent for a moment, looking between all their faces. Under the exhaustion, under the pain, under the grim severity of the moment was…not a lot of hope. That was normal enough for someone like Fenris or even Varric, who for all his fanciful stories tended to be a brutal realist, but Merrill? Aidan? For them to look so worn around the edges, things _had_ to be bad.

Catastrophically bad.

“Well,” Anders said, filling the silence. Lowtown was beginning to come awake around them, the slap of the sea underscored by rough voices calling out to each other and the ever-present scream of gulls. The sun had finally lifted over the horizon, and its golden light shone around them with a warmth that should have been reassuring. “That’s…not great news.”

Varric snorted. “You got a real way with an understatement, Blondie,” he said.

“Hawke,” Fenris added, quiet. He tipped his head down the street toward where Aveline was little more than a furious gleam of metal topped by carrot-red hair.

“Right,” Aidan said. “No, of course, you’re right. We should—we need to get this over with, one way or the other.” He took a deep breath, then straightened his shoulders and started moving purposefully toward the docks. The rest of them fell dutifully into step.

One thing kept bothering Anders, however. “Aidan,” he said—slowly, testing out the thought as it took shape. “No offense to how remarkably capable you are, of course, but… _why_ is this your problem?”

He could practically feel that cold, bright place in his mind that always felt like _Justice_ bristling at the question, but Anders pushed it aside. Aidan wasn’t sworn to any sort of _cause_. He wasn’t a guardswoman like Aveline, or a member of the council, or the bloody Viscount. While it did seem like Aidan Hawke was saddled with half the city’s problems more often than not, not even the spirit in his head could keep him from wondering _why_.

And while he was at it, wondering whether there was any _justice_ to be had in half of Kirkwall dumping their problems on one man’s head.

Aidan just glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, not answering. Fenris, surprisingly, smiled at him—well, grimaced, but it was close enough to a smile that Anders was willing to count it. Merrill was the only one who spoke. “Oh, well,” she said brightly, looking between all of them with big green eyes, “that’s because Hawke’s the hero of this story. Varric said so.”

“She’s not wrong,” Varric agreed, a laugh wending through his words. “I do say that an awful lot.”

“How about you make the next chapter of my epic tale something a little quieter?” They were nearing Aveline—nearing the qunari compound—and the line of Aidan’s body was increasingly stiff despite the levity in his voice. Beside him, Fenris made a low noise and deliberately stepped closer until their arms brushed, as if he couldn’t stand being seen giving comfort, yet couldn’t stand _not_ offering it at the same time. Aidan just smiled at him, expression softening. “Maybe a beach vacation. That sounds nice.”

Varric snorted again. “Hawke, if you manage to get the qunari out of Kirkwall, I’m pretty sure the grateful citizens will buy you your own beach.” Pause. “Now, given, it’ll be along the Wounded Coast…”

“Never mind,” Aidan groaned, laughing. “I take it back. No relaxing beach vacations for me. Ho there, Aveline,” he added as they finally reached the guardswoman. Several of her men had met her at the corner, milling awkwardly, faces lined with tension. They looked like they were preparing to plunge into battle. “It everything ready?”

“We’re ready,” Aveline said. Her jaw was set in a determined line, as if she planned to stubborn her way through this confrontation. Anders didn’t know much about the qunari Arishok—Aidan had been careful to keep the number of mages in their party as few as possible every other time their paths had crossed—but he had a distinct impression that Aveline was about to finally meet her match. “Let’s get this done.”

Aidan nodded and fell into step with Aveline, the rest of them—and the Kirkwall guards—moving into procession. A single wary-eyed quanri stood guard at the gates to the compound, and only two spear-wielding soldiers were visible watching them from a perch high atop the compound wall.

“That’s strange,” Varric murmured.

Anders tipped his head closer as Aveline and Aidan spoke to the qunari. “Maybe the rest of the Arishok’s guards are on break?”

Varric’s brows rose. “Did they ever strike you as the type to take breaks?” he demanded, which…fair.

“Shh!” whispered Merrill. “I’m trying to eavesdrop!”

“…audience with the Arishok,” Aveline was saying.

The qunari flicked his dark gaze over their group. “He will allow it, but not in this number.”

That didn’t sound promising.

Aveline didn’t appear to share his concerns. “I will only bring my friend here and a small complement of my guard. Is that few enough?”

“It is,” the qunari said, stepping aside. “Enter.”

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris protested, just low enough to nearly be lost under Aveline’s instructions to her men. Anders watched as Fenris reached out and brushed his first two fingers against Aidan’s wrist. Aidan turned toward him immediately, expression warm, open—enough like the memory of his own Voice that Anders felt his heart clench for a moment. No matter how much he loved bratty Carver Hawke now, he figured it would always hurt a little to remember the _could have been_. “I would go with you.”

Aidan was already shaking his head. “You heard what he said. The Arishok is only allowing a small group through. Wait for me here,” Aidan added, turning his hand so he could subtly hook their fingers together. To an idle observer, the connection would surely go unnoticed, but Anders could see the way Fenris’s tight stance melted in response. “Keep one ear open; if I need you for any reason, I’ll call.”

“You swear it?” Fenris pressed.

Aidan lifted his free hand as if to cup Fenris’s cheek, but froze mid-air, awkward and uncertain. He began to drop his hand, only to have Fenris catch it and bring it to his lips. He kissed Aidan’s knuckles before turning his hand over to press a second soft kiss to the palm of his hand, expression fervent, eyes shining with fierce devotion.

It was enough to have Anders choking up a little; it was _more_ than enough to have him turning away to give them as much privacy as possible. Even so, he heard Aidan’s quiet: “I promise you, Fenris,” nearly lost under Aveline’s return.

“All right,” she said, breaking into the touching moment, too distracted to pay anything but her goal much mind. “We are ready. Aidan?”

“Ready,” he agreed. Anders turned back just in time to see him give Fenris’s fingers one last squeeze before letting go and falling into step with Aveline. A select few of her guards formed a cautious semi-circle behind them, and together they stepped through the slowly opening compound gate.

Curious, Anders did his best to get his first and only glimpse inside. He spotted many, many more qunari ringing the interior walls, spears at their sides. He spotted a small clump of qunari off to the left, and a huge carved throne toward the back.

“Huh,” said Varric as the gates swung closed again, that brief glimpse dwindling. “Still looks like a lighter crew than usual. I wonder where the rest of them are?”

“Maybe they’re hiding?” Merrill offered. “Or maybe they don’t care for the sun. It _is_ awfully bright out.”

Varric’s frown melted into a crooked grin. “Maybe they are at that,” he said, offering Merrill his arm. Anders—and a much more reluctant Fenris—followed them away from the gate toward the shade of a warehouse overhang. The stench of fresh fish drifted from deeper within the warehouse, but at least it was relatively cool here—and, Anders noted, they had a perfect view of the compound. Just in case.

He settled in to wait.

The next few minutes passed in general silence. Anders leaned against a post, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped as he studied the two guards at the top of the outer wall. They were facing inward, watching whatever Aidan, Aveline, and her guards were doing within the compound proper.  He wished he could hear what they were saying. So, it seemed, did Fenris; he kept pacing back and forth, back and forth, coiled tight as an angry cat. If he had a tail, it would be lashing restlessly.

“You may as well relax,” Anders said when he could no longer take the anxious pacing. He ignored the glare Fenris shot him. “You were with Aidan the last few times he faced the Arishok, right? I heard all about it from Varric; you know how long this could take.”

“I would rather be in there with them now,” was all Fenris said. He _didn’t_ stop pacing.

Anders sighed. “I get it,” he said. “Trust me—I really do. But Aidan has been swimming more difficult waters than these ever since coming to Kirkwall. He’s going to be fi—”

His words were cut off by a sudden wall of pure noise: a howling, shrieking, brutal _roar_ , like a hundred voices bellowing at once. It echoed through the docks, as powerful as a fist to the face—and all across the city, its echo rose and rose and rose in an overwhelming crack of thunder: the heart of a tempest, the violence of an earthquake, the—

“No!” Fenris shouted, sword already drawn. Beneath the groundswell, Anders could just make out a strange metal _tink tink thunk_ , like rain on a tin roof, followed by a woman’s scream.

“What in bloody void?” Anders demanded. He staggered up, grabbing for his staff, even as Fenris charged toward the qunari guarding the gate. The two qunari on the roof didn’t seem to notice—or care. Their attention was still focused inward, and their arms raised in perfect synchronization, stabbing down with sudden finalily as Anders realized that that strange metallic noise was.

_Spears_. The qunari lining the inner walls of the compound were throwing _spears_ down into the killing zone…and Aveline and Aidan were trapped at its heart.

A crossbow bolt whizzed past Anders, burying itself in the back of one of the qunari’s necks. He staggered forward but didn’t fall, reaching down for another short spear. Fenris was lit up like the night sky, sword swinging; from inside, Anders swore he heard a shouted:

“ _Hawke!_ ”

He called up a lightning bolt, flinging it toward the guards on the wall. Black energy bled into it just as it hit, Merrill’s spell catching them at the exact same time. Bianca hummed again, again within Varric’s hands, bolts flying, and the compound gates went _crashing_ open as Fenris drove the guard down into splintering wood.

That terrible, echoing cry had faded, but the aftermath still rung loud in Anders’ ears. There was screaming rising from the streets—the docks, Lowtown, fuck, even Hightown. A brilliant light burst over the stone walls of the Gallows, and—

_The Gallows_.

Carver.

Oh, void, what was happening?

“I have to,” he said, disoriented, distressed. Anders took a staggering step forward, only to stop— _torn_ between staying to fight at Aidan’s side and running through the streets like a madman searching for Carver. The whole world was spinning off its axis, and it felt like being thrust back in time; the walls of Amaranthine crumbling, voices raised in terrible screams, blood, blood, blood everywhere and—

“Anders!” Merrill grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, lurching him out of his frozen panic. Aveline and— _oh thank the Maker_ —Aidan were stumbling back out of the qunari compound, blood spattering their faces. Fenris and Varric formed a wall between them and the warriors rushing to face them, even as other qunari went spilling _past_ the core group, racing deeper into the city.

Voice rose in terrified ululations. Stone crumbled and rooftops caught fire as blackpowder explosions rocked the ground one after another after another.

“I have to,” he began again, even as he was pulled down the street; the small knot of their party drew together without words, Fenris pushing Aidan into the center even as he swung his huge sword to block an oncoming blade. Sparks flew at the contact, and Anders could smell burning wood and…blood.

Aidan slipped, nearly falling.

Anders reacted without thinking, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and hauling him back up. He slipped under his arm, hands flaring with blue healing light as they skated across the simple leathers, searching for— _there_. There, broken at the end, the jagged wood nearly lost in Aidan’s side. It would take more than a hurried back alley heal to fix, but: “Not even close to lethal,” Anders assured him—assured Fenris, who was pushing back the now-dead qunari with Aveline’s help. Merrill cast a spell, sending a second attacker stumbling back with a howling black cloud enveloping his face. “You’re the luckiest man I’ve ever met.”

Though maybe not so lucky, considering Aidan had lost all but one of his family members. All but Carver.

Fuck. _Carver_. There was no way Carver wasn’t throwing himself into the heart of this. There was no way he wasn’t somewhere out there, fighting the qunari assault, so stupidly brave without anyone he could trust to watch his back.

They needed to find him. They needed to band together to stop this. They needed to— To—

Aidan must have read some of the newly rising panic on his face. Blood-soaked fingers closed around Anders’ forearm and squeezed. “We’ll make this right,” he promised—sounding so certain, so _sure_ of their ability to save Carver, save the city, save everyone and every bloody thing that Anders had to believe him. He’d have come flying apart between Justice and the hopeless cause he faced a hundred thousand times by now if he didn’t. “Anders. We’ve got this.”

“We’ve got this,” Anders echoed, feeling numb.

Aidan smiled, so sweet, and squeezed his arm again before letting go. They were being edged back into a wide alleyway, Varric searching the darkness for further attackers, Fenris and Aveline guarding their front. If Aidan were to be healed before they threw themselves into further danger, now would be the time.

Anders dropped into a crouch before his friend, reaching up to carefully palpate the wound. “Someone help brace him,” he said.

Merrill dropped her staff and moved to slip beneath one of Aidan’s arms. Fenris stepped in to take his other—fingertips trailing down Aidan’s cheek, turning his face and drawing his gaze.

“You look like a pincushion,” Fenris said gravely, thumb rasping across Aidan’s jawline. “Next time, dodge the spears.”

Aidan laughed—sucking in a startled breath when Anders used his distraction to push the speartip the rest of the way through him. Blood flowed freely, but he cupped his glowing hands over the wound and healed it within seconds, closing the rest of the cuts and scrapes easily.

“F-fuck,” Aidan said, tipping his head until his forehead resting against Fenris’s temple.

Anders rose. “Aveline?” he asked, keeping tight control of the fear and panic rising rising rising like a howling beast inside him. It sounded as if the whole world were ending; screams echoed across the Waking Sea, and close by, he could hear the sound of metal on metal. They needed to get out there, to find Carver, to take control of this nightmare.

Aveline waved him off. “My shield took the worst of it,” she said. “As well as my men.” There was fury trembling beneath her words, but she held herself in perfect control. “Hawke—can you hear it? The qunari must be spreading out.”

“They’re attacking the city,” Merrill said, tentatively stepping away from Aidan’s side. Her face was pale, expression pinched.

“Why?” Varric demanded, not taking his eyes from the other end of the alleyway. “What could they possibly hope to accomplish?”

Aidan shook his head. “Somehow I don’t think the Arishok cares what happens after this,” he said. “You heard him in there, Aveline. He means to root out corruption, and if that requires drowning Kirkwall in blood, he’ll do it.”

“You may be right,” Aveline said. “Whatever it is, we need to do something quickly. The Qunari are assaulting the city—and fast. The Arishok planned this for who knows how long.”

Aidan brushed his hand along the nape of Fenris’s neck before straightening, standing under his own power. Anders’ healing held—he seemed strong, capable, ready to carve his way through the city streets if necessary. “We should head for the Viscount,” Aidan said. “If I were the Arishok, that’s where I’d go first.”

“Carver,” Anders said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Aidan met his gaze, and he saw twin worry there—barely leashed. “Carver will make the same call,” Aidan said, sounding certain. “He’ll head straight for the Viscount; we can intercept him on the way.”

He wanted to protest—wanted to demand they do better than that—but Anders bit his tongue and nodded once, sharply. With the world going to the void around them, that truly was the best they could hope for. Carver was smart, and strong, and just as much of a hero as his brother. Aidan was right; with the Gallows (more or less) safely tucked away across the harbor, Carver would be drawn to the Viscount’s palace, determined to help save the day. He’d make it through, and they would find him there—and Anders would _sit on him_ if he had to, to make certain he didn’t do anything stupid and risk his fool head. He couldn’t lose anything more and still manage to keep the ever-shattering parts of himself whole.

Aveline was talking, words nearly lost under the din. “I’ll rally the guardsmen and meet you at the Viscount’s office. Be careful, Hawke.”

“And you,” Aidan called after her, but she was already sprinting away, sword drawn, shield at the ready, lost within seconds to the fray.

Instead, Aidan turned to the rest of them. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said. “We’ve fought qunari in small groups before, but this is something far worse. I can’t promise today is going to end in our favor—but we’ve got to try. We’ve got to help this city. It took us in when we had nowhere else to go; it’s our _home_.”

“Hear fucking hear,” Varric agreed, hoisting Bianca on his shoulder.

“We will see this through,” Fenris added gravely.

Anders just nodded once, not trusting himself to speak—overwhelmed with hope and fear and fury, crackling with lightning just beneath the fragile cage of his skin. It took everything he had to keep Justice from exploding out of him in a firestorm of rage. People were dying. People he loved might _die_.

The world had its eyes on them now.

“All right,” Aidan said, looking between all of them. He reached back to pull the twin blades he’d taken to using ever since his magic had faded, and echoes of firelight swarmed in his usually gentle grey-blue eyes. “Let’s take back our city.”


	59. Carver

The city was fire and madness and death—the air echoing with screams that rose and fall in crashing waves—and Carver Hawke was _pissed_.

“ _Move_ ,” he snapped, shoving past the useless milling of Templars to forcibly take his turn at the oars. They’d left a small unit back at the Gallows—led by Cullen, thank the Maker—to defend the mages should any qunari make it so far, but the rest had piled into rowboats at Meredith’s orders and set sail for the city proper. Carver had wanted to be on the first boat out (he’d almost given into a near-insurmountable desire to jump into the river and swim at the first ululation) but Meredith had ordered him back to help organize the men.

Only, _only_ his sense of duty to his charges kept him from laughing in her face. Only his sense of responsibility for the men and women in that Circle had him waiting as smoke rose into the sky and his heart beat a rapid staccato of fear: _Aidan, Anders, Aidan, Anders, Aidan, Anders, Aidan._

He had to be over there; he had to be with them; he had to be fighting at their side or _what was he fucking good for anyway?_

Now, sword strapped to his back, hands gripping the oar, he rowed with all his strength, gaze fixed grimly on the approaching city. Somehow, everything looked worse up close than it had from the Gallows. People were running this way and that, with no efforts to coordinate, no _sense_ to their panicked flight. A building’s roof caught flame, blazing beams crashing into the street to block the main thoroughfare; an elven woman, three crying children gripping her skirts, was nearly lost in the instant conflagration.

_Fuck_.

“Cover me!” Carver barked, shoving to the prow and _vaulting_ off the boat. He landed easily on the balls of his feet, balanced even in his Templar armor. He gave a quick glance up toward the blazing roof, spotting more debris ready to go toppling at any moment. No chance to reconsider or second-guess: Carver threw himself into the fire, barreling through with a set jaw at the sudden scorch of heat.

He leaped over the broken beam, darted about a fracturing mix of thatch and brick, and spotted the woman. She’d fallen to her hands and knees, covering the smallest of her children with her body. The other two clung to her skirts, faces twisting in terror. The flames weren’t licking around them, thank the Maker, but it was only a matter of seconds before that other beam fell.

He pivoted toward them easily, snagging one child about the waist and hoisting her onto his back, away from the angle of his sword, trusting her to grab hold of the soft leather lining his neck-guard. The little boy was easily scooped into one arm, the woman in the other—her toddler clutched within her spasmodically tightening arms.

“What,” she breathed, frightened, but Carver was flat-out _running_ , sprinting away from the burning debris as a loud _crack_ splintered the air, sparks raining down.

The little boy screamed, shrill and loud and long; Carver ran as fast as his body could take him, hyperaware of that little girl clinging precariously to his armor, and how close, how close, how _really fucking close_ they all were to being buried and burned alive.

_Crash!_ The second beam hit the cobblestones with a thunderclap that shook the earth beneath his feet, but Carver didn’t slow. He raced down the street and toward a familiar alcove not terribly far from where he used to live with his uncle. His breath was a ragged thing in his chest, but he couldn’t feel the pain of exertion, or heat, or anything beyond the sick fear that he hadn’t been fast enough.

Finally, he staggered to a stop, bending forward at the waist to drag in sucking breaths. He let the woman go as gently as he could before setting the (still-screaming) little boy down onto his feet. Straightening, Carver reached back to the girl, a part of him melting in relief when a little hand curled around his and squeezed.

He waited until she was gripping his fingers with both hands before gently swinging her around the hard metal of his armor—careful of the sharp paldrons—and set her on her feet. Her tiny multitude of ponytails and braids were a little scorched and soot streaked her brown skin, but overall, she looked whole and healthy: those huge brown eyes stared up at him in silent awe as she leaned over and elbowed her little brother (hard) in the side.

The boy’s screams stopped as suddenly as they’d begun.

“Neat…trick,” Carver said, breath still coming too fast. It was part exertion, part residual terror. Not that he was ever going to let on about the latter. “Teach it to me sometime? I…have a brother too.”

A slow, unexpected grin broke across her face.

The woman clutched at Carver’s hand, squalling toddler curled against her side. Her eyes were big and limpid with tears. “ _Thank you_ , ser,” she whispered. “I thought for sure… _thank you_.”

_Don’t thank me_ , he almost said with his usual sharpness. _You haven’t made it out of this yet._ But Carver bit his tongue and swallowed back the impulse to self-sabotage. No, no, he had helped, and he could help more. He could save this woman and her little family, and he could save more people as they ran screaming through the streets—and maybe if he could do all that, he could save his own brother and the fool man he loved, from themselves if nothing else.

“Follow me,” he said instead, turning to look out into the street. He spotted qunari racing into a distant alleyway, another—a saarebas? Shit—heading down the steps into the alienage. “Keep close and be ready to run when I tell you to.” He unstrapped his sword and edged out.

The whole city was alight, fires breaking out everywhere he looked. Carver began to move, checking over his shoulder to make sure the elf woman and her family were following. They’d have to be fast but smart: there was no way he’d be able to protect them _and_ fight off a knot of qunari warriors.

“This way,” he said, taking a sharp turn and trusting to his memory of the slums. They sprawled through Lowtown in a maze of alleys and main thoroughfares; once upon a time, he and Aidan had known them all. As smugglers for Athenril, it was important to be able to slip away fast and silent.

He leaned on those memories, on that experience, to lead the small family through the chaos of Lowtown without being discovered. There were fights breaking out everywhere, the rotten fruit sound of skulls being cracked open—innocent blood being spilled—oppressive. The smallest of the three children still snuffled and whimpered, but his mother managed to keep him quiet. The other two…

It was a miracle they weren’t making enough noise to draw the qunari down on them.

“I used to live here, you know,” Carver said quietly, keeping his voice pitched beneath the frenetic howl of the city. He glanced back over his shoulder to meet the little girl’s eyes. “I’m taking you to where I stayed when I first move to Kirkwall. It’s…well, it’d be a lie to call it _nice_ , but my uncle will be able to watch over you.”

“Is _he_ nice?” the girl whispered.

Carver snorted before he could stop himself.

She tilted her head, little charred braids dangling. “It’s okay,” she decided. “He doesn’t have to be nice if he’s good.”

That…was more wisdom than he was willing to grapple with right now, especially coming from such a solemn-eyed young thing. “Err, right,” he said, dodging the matter altogether, and showed them the secret way up to the rooftops. This part of the city was stucco and slate, relatively safe from the fires. Still, he kept an eye out for trapped tiles as he lead the strange procession over from one building to the other, weaving ever-closer to Gamlen’s hovel. Carver glanced back toward the docks once and swore he saw a group of Templars fighting their way through the flames, but they were gone again in an instant.

“Here,” he said, pausing long enough to scan the small square for signs of qunari. It was silent, abandoned, utterly empty—save for what looked like a body slumped in the distance, at the left-hand turn out of the slums and into Lowtown proper.

Carver stepped so he was between the kids and any accidental sighting of that body, helping them and their mother down from the roof and onto his uncle’s front doorstep. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, skin prickling at the urgency of the moment—knowing that a knot of qunari could come around the corner at any moment. “Uncle!” Carver said, pounding his fist against the door. “Open up!”

There was a clash of steel alarmingly close; a battle cry; a dying scream. Carver pounding his fist against the door again and tried the knob—locked. “Uncle!”

The door rattled once, then opened a crack, Gamlen’s watery blue eye just visible. “What is—” he began, _squawking_ as Carver shouldered the door wide and ushered the little family inside. He closed it behind him, taking his first deep breath in what felt like hours. The unending clash of steel and screams and cackling fire dimmed as they were closed into Gamlen’s hovel. It felt, for an instant, almost like actually coming home.

“What the bloody void!” Gamlen demanded.

Carver rested his sword against the door and ran a hand over his face. “I need you to watch over them until all this blows over,” he said. “Keep the door barred and hide in the smuggler’s cellar if you hear anything.” He and Aidan had dug a cellar into the hard-packed earth in the spare room, lined with salvaged wood and hidden from view. It had been the easiest way to store goods for Athenril without Mother fretting constantly over being caught with contraband, and while it would be a tight squeeze, Carver was fairly sure everyone could fit inside. “Best if you get it prepped so you can be in there and hidden away by the time someone could kick down this door.”

“And what of you, nephew?” The words came out in a sneer, but Gamlen’s face betrayed his very real worry. No matter how much he blustered, no matter how selfish he was at heart, Uncle Gamlen really _did_ care. “Who will keep you safe as you go off and play hero?”

Hero? _Ha_.

“I’m sure Aidan will rescue me if I get in over my head,” Carver said, then turned to the family. They were all watching him, exhaustion and fear and uncomfortable levels of gratitude on their faces. “I…be safe,” he said, grabbing his sword and backing up into the door.

“You too!” said the little boy, voice breaking mid-word.

“Maker _bless_ you,” said the mother, cradling her youngest child.

“Kill them all!” said the little girl, waving.

Carver waved back, awkward, and slipped outside before he could say or do anything more embarrassing. He shut the door quickly behind him and waited on the sill until he heard Gamlen grumblingly lock it. Then he scanned the empty square, listening to nearby fighting, trying to come up with a plan.

Aidan would be swept up in all of this, no doubt about it. It was exactly the sort of thing his brother always seemed to find himself at the very heart of. But the question was…would Aidan be down at the docks near the qunari compound, where it seemed to have begun? Or would he have made his way by this point toward Hightown and the Viscount’s keep, where it seemed the qunari were herding the survivors? Or would he still be out there somewhere in the middle of it, saving every individual he could?

Just as importantly…would Anders be with him, or would he be somewhere down in Darktown? Maybe trapped as pieces of the city crumbled, the fire eating away at ancient supports. Fuck, maybe he was caught now, beneath rubble and flames, trying desperately to drag himself free as—

“Not. Fucking. Helping,” Carver growled, gripping his sword and practically flinging himself off the short steps. He needed to pick a direction (guess his brother’s direction) and stick with it. He had to trust that Anders, Varric, Aveline, Merrill, Fenris— _all of them_ —were with Aidan and just as safe or just as in danger as his older brother. If he didn’t do that, he’d go mad with worry.

“Viscount’s keep,” Carver muttered beneath his breath, taking the left, then right that would lead him up to Hightown. It was burning bright—burning itself out, as if the qunari were trying to cleanse the city in the most direct way possible—and he’d have one hell of a fight getting there all by his own, but… It made the most sense that Aidan would go where the people were being herded. It’s what _he_ would do, if he were leading some kind of suicide run rescue mission.

Which, hey, he supposed he was!

“Fuck, fuck fuck, and _fuck_.”

He ducked under a blazing awning, vaulted up stairs, turned a corner, and ran right into the end of a battle. The merchant had never had a chance, but he bellowed defiantly in the qunari’s face as he was struck down. There were three of them ( _three! Fuck!)_ , blood dripping from their blades. They turned as one as Carver charged forward, sword already mid-swing.

_Hurry hurry_ , he thought, steel sparking against steel, muscles aching. _Hurry hurry_. Maybe there was the chance the man was still alive; he had elfroot in his pouch; he could save him. _Hurry hurry._ The second qunari swung and Carver barely ducked in time, using his momentum to bring his giant blade around. _Hurry hurry_. He’d been in so many fights for his life, but never alone—never like this.

_Hurry._

_Hurry._

_Hurry_.

He had no sense of time as he fought: everything was staccato images, strategy playing out in his head, instinct saving him from life-ending blows. Finally, eventually, he stood over the three bodies, panting hard, one hand pressed against his side where a blade had caught him unawares. It hurt like hell and he could feel blood pooling within the shell of his dented armor, but— _Hurry, hurry_.

Carver moved to the man sprawled across the broken cobblestones, reaching to turn his head. Staring blue eyes met his, filmed over and hazy with death, and Carver let out a hard hiss of breath as he stood again. Fuck. Too late.

_Aidan wouldn’t have been too late_ , he thought, then violently pushed that irrelevant thought aside. “Now isn’t time for your bullshit, _Carver_ ,” he told himself, hefting his sword and jogging (painfully) down the next street. He could see the Viscount’s keep rising high high high above; he needed to hurry if he wanted to get there before the Arishok could finish…whatever crazy plan the Arishok had for Kirkwall and its people.

He was stopped several times along the way, sometimes to lend aid, sometimes to fight alongside Aveline’s guard (no sign of their leader anywhere) and sometimes to face down qunari by himself. When he finally reached the ivy-covered pillars just beyond the keep, he was light-headed from exhaustion and blood loss, moving by strength of will alone. His sword weighed down his aching muscles, too heavy to lift without the adrenaline of pitched combat. There were bodies littering the way—both human and qunari. The latter gave him hope that he’d made the right call, hope that he was on the right path, hope that—

A fireball whizzed by as he turned the corner, very nearly searing the skin off his face. Carver jerked back with a yelp, sword lifting in useless defense, heart hammering.

“Wait!” Aidan cried. “Wait, Orsino, no—that’s—”

“ _Carver_.”

He lowered his sword, straightening from the instinctive defensive crouch just as Anders broke away from the small knot of people gathering against the shelter of the far wall. He dropped his staff like an _idiot_ , casting it away with careless fingers as he flew toward Carver, sheer gratitude lighting up his face until he was the most beautiful—the most perfect—the most _welcome_ sight of Carver’s whole bloody life.

“Oh, fuck me,” he said, even as his heart twisted with reflexive joy. _He’s all right_ , his hammering pulse seemed to cry, and Carver had never been much of a romantic, but none of that mattered now as he let his heavy sword clatter to the ground and took a step, another, until he was catching Anders about the middle and spinning him around into a sudden, desperate kiss.

It was a thunderclap, a conflagration, a crash of wave against shore as Anders surged against Carver’s body and Carver yanked him even closer, fingers of one hand digging into golden hair to pull his stupid face in for one hot, melting, hungry, endless kiss. It went on and on, filthy-deep with co-mingled relief and joy; their tongues tangled, he bit desperately at Anders’ lower lip, he grabbed handfuls of hair and _tugged_ him into instant submission.

_Mine_ , a feral part of Carver hummed, arousal heating his blood the way not even pitched battle had. _He’s mine, he’s mine, I won’t let them take him, he’s mine_.

Anders melted against the cold steel of his plate armor with a broken mewl, staggering as his knees seemed to give out. Carver tightened one arm around his skinny waist, _yanking_ him as close as possible, riding out Anders’ full-body writhe. He caught Anders’ tongue between his teeth and scraped at the next desperate thrust, sucking away the sting as the other man’s hips snapped closer, closer. Anders was shuddering, practically climbing him, fingers pulling with restless need at the complicated buckles holding his armor in place— _sparks_ dancing from the tips, oh bloody fucking _Maker_.

“Anders,” Carver gasped, and ah, fuck, he’d been such a fool. He should never had suggested they take their time, go slowly, test the waters. If he’d listened to the howling clamor of their bodies before this point, he’d know what it felt like to bend this man over and fuck him with trembling fingers; he’d know what the tight, _slick_ pull of him would feel like, how he’d tremble and beg as Carver thrust deep, deeper…the filthy-wet sounds of his hole clenching greedily, needily, so very close to shattering apart as Carver just, fuck, _took him_. Bent him over, gripped those skinny, freckled hips, and _took_ what they both so obviously needed.

He could take him now. He wanted to take him now. He wanted to—

Somewhere, what felt like very far away, Varric was laughing.

…shit.

His awareness snapped back at the muffled noise—at Merrill’s high giggle—at Orsino’s helpfully too-loud, “Ah, yes, _Meredith_. So, how many are there?”

Carver all but dropped Anders to the cobblestones at the Knight-Commander’s name, jerking away as if scalded. His cheeks were bright red and he felt like everything must have been writ loud and clear across his face, even as he snagged a listing Anders by the arm and subtly pull him behind the solid wall of his body.

Meredith was just coming around the corner with a few of his Templar brothers; she barely glanced his way, obviously having just missed their very public display. _Thank the Maker_. “Ah, Ser Carver: good. We’ll need have need of your blade.”

He flushed deeper but nodded, waiting until her attention was on Aidan before bending to snatch up his fallen sword. He slid it into its strap at his back, hyperaware of Anders hovering close. It they were heading into pitched battle with the Arishok and his stens, they may very well need Anders fighting at their side, but…he hated the thought of Meredith getting a glimpse of what he could do.

No. No, they may have great need of Anders, but _that_ —that thought of Meredith getting her claws into him, of Anders being dragged to the Circle or worse—made his blood run cold. He couldn’t let that happen.

_Run,_ he thought, glancing over as Anders shifted around to his side. Those whiskey-warm eyes were on him, sweeping across the blood and soot and sheer exhaustion written clear across Carver’s form. _Run before she can learn the truth and ruin everything._

Anders, of course, blithely ignored the danger he was in. He slid one hand down—having the sense at least to block the motion with his body, should Meredith or one of the Templars glance over—and pressed against the buckled, bloody metal at Carver’s side. The hum of healing magic filled him, and Carver wanted to catch his wrist and stop him from giving himself away; he wanted to tug him close and kiss those swollen lips.

_I love you,_ he thought, warmth flooding through his body at the touch of Anders’ magic. _You bloody fool._

Meredith was talking, focused on Aidan. It was ironic that here at the very end, Carver was _glad_ his brother was the center of the whole fucking universe. The more attention he pulled, the less Meredith could notice the Grey Warden turned apostate healer in their mix. “There are a great many qunari at the Keep’s entrance; they have already taken it over. Clearly they’ve been planning this for some time.” The Templars behind her murmured in agreement. “This is the only way in. We must assault them now before their numbers grow.”

Carver gently caught Anders’ wrist, stopping him before he could pour too much energy into Carver. _Save your strength,_ he mouthed.

Anders just narrowed his eyes and send another jolt of healing light into Carver, refreshing exhausted muscles, making him feel as if he’d just woken for the day. _Make me_ , he mouthed back.

Carver rolled his eyes.

“Are you mad?” Orsino was saying. “They have hostages! We need a distraction.”

Meredith sighed. “Decide quickly,” she said—to _Aidan_. Orsino swung around to look at him too, and Carver had a sudden near-irrepressible desire to laugh. Holy shit, it seemed that somehow _Aidan_ was in charge of the Senior Enchanter and Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. How the fuck had that happened?

“We can’t risk a distraction,” Aidan said, glancing once at Fenris. “The Arishok is smart—smarter than any of us. He’ll know what we’re doing and he won’t appreciate the ruse. An honest forward charge is the best way to save as many lives as possible.”

“Very well,” Meredith said. She jerked her chin at the senior enchanter. “Orsino, make sure there are no surprises. Ser Carver, with us.” Decision made, Meredith unstrapped her sword, moving toward the steps that would lead up up up to the Viscount’s keep. Her Templars fell in step behind her.  Aidan remained where he was, speaking in a low voice to Orsino even as the rest of their companions prepared themselves.

Anders took a step toward where he’d left his fallen staff; Carver gently caught his arm. “Do you love me?” he asked, voice low.

Anders’ brows pulled together in confusion. “You know I do,” he said.

“Do you trust me?”

“…yes. Where are you going with this?”

Carver glanced toward Meredith—she was just reaching the first step and would notice he hadn’t fallen in with her at any moment. “I want you to stay here and help Orsino guard the entrance against any stragglers. Wait,” he added before Anders could protest, “we don’t have time to argue, and I just— I know you want to be in there with us. Maker knows I’d be more comfortable having you where I could see you. But Meredith…”

“I’m not afraid of Meredith,” Anders protested.

“You should be,” Carver said. “All it would take was one spell in her sight, and she would have the power to crush you. She—”

Anders held up a hand. “Let me rephrase. I’m not as afraid of Meredith as I am of losing _you_.” Carver’s heart squeezed at the admission—at the look in Anders’ eyes. Maker, but he’d lost so much already; they all had. “I want to be there to heal you if you need it. I want to _make sure_ you come out of this alive. I wasn’t able to do that for Bethany, and I… I just need to…”

Carver, daring much, reached up to cup his face. “And I need you here,” he countered, “where you can watch my back—where you can fight without either of us fearing you’ll be struck down as an apostate. You can’t be your strongest in there; you need to stay _here_.”

“But,” Anders began.

“You’re not the only one who wants to protect the man he loves, you know,” Carver said. “Let me do this for you; please? I _promise_ I won’t die. I’m too spiteful to let some qunari do me in.”

Anders gave a watery laugh. “I will hate you so much if you’re lying to me,” he said. “I’ll get Merrill to raise you just so I can strike you down again.”

Carver leaned in, resting their foreheads together. “Too bad we’re never going to see that,” he murmured. “Sounds like it would be pretty hair-raising. I love you, you idiot.”

“I love you too,” Anders said, brushing their lips together. “Brat.”

Carver smiled against his mouth, wishing he could take this moment and stretch it into eternity—but there was battle waiting. Death roamed on two feet, horns stretching proud to the sky, and he was ready to face it down with every fiber of his being. “Be safe,” he said, stepping away and unsheathing his sword. Aidan, Fenris and Varric were all heading up the steps after Meredith; somewhere up ahead, a qunari called out warning. Merrill slipped toward the two of them, Anders’ staff in hand—it looked like she would remain behind as well. “Be smart. Merrill,” Carver added, glancing at her, “make sure Anders is smart.”

“Oh!” she said brightly, head cocking, “I’ll try my best, but that doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“You are the worst,” Anders groaned as Carver, laughing, turned and jogged to catch up with his brother. Up ahead, steel slashed with steel as Meredith led the charge. “Make sure you come back so I can remind you how terrible you are!”

Carver waved back at the man he loved, heart blooming with incongruous happiness as he and his brother threw themselves into pitched battle with the qunari—aware that, no matter what happened next, Anders would be near, he would be brave…

And, most importantly, he would be _safe_.


	60. Aidan

Meredith, Carver, and the rest of the Templars sliced a path through the main hoard with brutal efficiency—battering ram and diversion all in one. It was surprisingly _easy_ to slip past the core guard this way, letting the Templars carry the brunt of the battle while Aidan led his small group of friends on ahead through familiar rooms to the solidly closed doors of the great hall.

There they paused, uncertain, all eyes trained expectantly on _him_.

“Should we wait?” Varric asked, not bothering to glance back. His fine red coat was darkened with soot and he looked years beyond his age: exhausted shadows pressed like fresh bruises beneath his eyes. “Could be more on the other side.”

“It could be anything on the other side,” Aidan agreed. He reached up, hesitated, then shook his head. “No, we have to keep pressing forward. There’s no telling how many people will die if we don’t.”

“There is no telling whether there will be a city to save either way,” Fenris said, but he settled into a waiting stance, ever-ready to follow Aidan wherever he led.

Aidan swallowed back the emotion that threatened to rise at that thought, pushing it aside even as he shoved the doors open. He half expected another wave of qunari to be waiting. But other than a single pitched battle— _Aveline’s_ red hair flashing as she dispatched the last of the attackers just outside the guardsmen’s quarters—the huge room was echoingly empty.

An unexpected blessing in this long, terrible day.

Aidan paused at the threshold, taking in the scene, even as Fenris and Varric raced to help Aveline. The large room was in shambles, tapestries ripped from the wall and bodies strewn in forgotten heaps across gleaming marble floors. Sightless eyes stared at him in accusing silence from familiar faces. There was the guardsman who always smiled when he passed. There was the courtier who’d been the first to befriend Mother all those months ago. There was a graybeard slumped against a man barely passed into manhood, their jaws lax, their bodies surrounded by a halo of congealing blood, their twisted screams seeming to say:

_Where were you? Why couldn’t you make it in time?_

He flinched back even as Aveline swung her sword in the final killing stroke, qunari sten crumpling before them: riddled in crossbow bolts and desperate blows. Behind him, in the chamber below, steel clashed with steel. Meredith called out orders. Carver—

Aidan looked back despite himself and found his brother in the center of the fray. He was refreshed from Anders’ clumsily-hidden spell, face spattered with qunari blood, giant sword swinging like the first steps in an achingly familiar dance. He looked so… _grown up_ , a hero in his own right, and Aidan couldn’t stop himself from wondering: would Carver had made it in time to save these people, had their roles been reversed? Would Carver know what to do now if he could leave Meredith’s side and take the lead?

Possibly. Probably. Maker, at least he would be doing _something_.

 _Be careful,_ Aidan mouthed to the only blood-family he had left, watching for one last endless breath as Carver lifted his blade, blocking an incoming blow with enviable strength. Then Aidan forced himself to step forward and push the doors shut behind him, blocking out the sound of pitched battle. Carver—the Templars—would do what they must; in the meantime, _Aidan_ had to do whatever he could to save his city.

He just…couldn’t escape the feeling that if he had been a _real_ hero from one of Varric’s many stories, he’d know exactly what came next.

“Are we all right?” he asked, moving to join his friends. Aveline was just cleaning the last of qunari blood off her sword. Strands of red hair fell free of her usual neat queue and her face was set in hard lines, but she nodded sharply at his words.

“We are ready to follow your lead, Hawke,” she said—and that was the problem, wasn’t it? Aveline, Varric, even Fenris turned to look at him with expectation in their eyes, as if just because he’d fumbled his way through adventures in the past, he had _any_ idea how to handle a full-scale qunari invasion. Especially now that he was more or less powerless: mana still a broken thing inside him, his skill with knives early and mostly untested. A _farmboy_ playing at hero.

Aidan swallowed and fought to keep the panic from rising in his throat. “He’ll have taken them into the throne room,” he reasoned. “It’s easily the most defensible, and the…poetry of it would appeal to him, I think.” Tearing down their leaders, their useless symbols of power and wealth, in the very seat of that supposed power—yes, the Arishok would find that fitting.

“What’s the plan, Hawke?” Varric asked, shouldering Bianca as Aidan picked his way across the sea of corpses toward the steps leading up up up toward the far golden doors. “Not that I’m doubting you in the eleventh hour, but there’s going to be the void to pay up in there; it won’t be pretty.”

He slid his knives back into their sheaths in answer. “The Arishok is honorable,” he said. “He’s always preferred when I dealt with him straight. That…” That was a horrible plan; he was going to get everyone killed. “That’s our best bet,” he forced himself to finish.

Fenris made a low noise in the back of his throat. It could have been disagreement or confirmation, but either way he moved a breath closer to Aidan, as if he could somehow share his strength just by being by his side. Perhaps he could—glancing over and meeting his Voice’s eyes, Aidan felt something warmly grateful uncurl in his stomach.

He wasn’t in this alone. Neither of them were.

“…bullshitting our way out of this,” Varric was saying as they neared the big golden doors. “It’ll go down in the record books, either way.”

“It’ll go down in _your_ books, at the very least,” Aveline said, sword still in hand and expression trusting. She believed in him. They _all_ believed in him. It was humbling and terrifying all at once.

Varric snorted. “That’s the idea. Assuming I make it out of this alive.”

“You’re going to make it out of this alive,” Aidan said, and the words felt heavy as a vow on his tongue. He wet his lips, looking up at the ornately carved doors, heart hammering rabbit-fast in his chest. Only Fenris’s steady presence at his side kept his hands from shaking as he reached out—then turned one final time to look at his friends. “ _All_ of you are.”

“And you,” Fenris said with the barest hint of a growl.

“Of course,” he said quickly, sounding more certain than he felt. “Be smart, be careful, and if he lets us talk, watch what you say. Words are as strong as steel with this one.”

“I’d say he’s my kind of guy,” Varric quipped, “but you know…burning my city and all.”

Inside, muffled, they heard gasps and cries. Aidan’s stomach churned. “Then let’s get in there and end this,” he said. And, because he could never say it enough: “I love you.” He encompassed _all_ of them in a final look, one after the other, hoping they understood just how desperately he meant it. His gaze landed last on Fenris.

Fenris opened his mouth—to protest? To reciprocate the raw emotion of his final confession?—but Aidan was already turning and _shoving_ the doors open, spilling him and his found family into the chaos and horror that awaited them.

He took the scene in on a glance: a crowd of noble men and women, cringing back in visible terror. Qunari stens lining the walls, spears out, ready to end it all at a moment’s notice. The viscount’s crown at his feet, his severed head staring blankly a few paces away. Blood streaking the floor, and fire at the windows casting twisting shadows as the Arishok turned, huge sword resting on a single massive shoulder.

“But we have guests,” he said, voice booming out in welcome. Aidan refused to let himself hesitate, stepping over the forgotten crown and the man who’d borne it and striding toward the Arishok. The stens tensed, spears lifting, but the Arishok simply made his way down the steps to meet Aidan halfway—welcoming. “Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you.”

He stopped and Aidan did the same, subtly reaching a hand back in warning. His friends remained several paces behind—even Fenris allowed Aidan and the Arishok their space, thank the Maker. Everything rested on this moment.

“Arishok,” Aidan said, bowing his head in respectful greeting, as if this man hadn’t killed hundreds within the span of a few hours.

The Arishok returned the gesture. “Maraas toh ebra-shok. You alone are basalit-an. This is what respect looks like, bas,” the Arishok added over his shoulder, lip curling. “Some of you will never earn it.” Then he refocused on Aidan. “So tell me, Hawke,” he said. “You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?”

Before Aidan could answer, a body stumbled through the door and slumped across the stone with a dying grunt. Everyone turned, tension high, and…

_What the bloody void?_

_Isabela_ stepped over the body, blood smearing her cheeks, a giant book clutched under one arm. Her hips swayed as she crossed the room toward him, passing Aveline with a quick wink that had the guardswoman hissing in disbelief.

“I believe _I_ can answer that,” she said. Isabela glanced at Aidan once before quickly looking away, pushing the book into the Arishok’s hands. “I’m sure you’ll find it mostly undamaged.”

He turned the book over, clawed fingertips brushing with the utmost gentleness over the binding. “The Tome of Koslun,” he murmured.

“It took me a while to get back, what with all the fighting everywhere. You know how it is.”

Aidan somehow found himself smiling. “I thought you’d be long gone by now,” he said. Grateful and touched and so very fucking _glad_ to see her. Maybe they’d be able to wrangle a happy ending out of this after all.

Isabela scoffed. “This is your damned influence, Hawke.” She gave a rusty laugh. “I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn ‘round. It’s pathetic.”

If they were anywhere else, he would have reached out to tug her into his arms. At the very least he would have said _more_. _Thank you_ , perhaps. Or, _I knew I could trust you_. Or, _you’re part of this crazy family too, you know._

 _Something_ to show just how touched he was by the pirate’s unexpected selflessness.

But they weren’t alone, and there was still the matter of the burning city to attend to. The Arishok handed the book over to a sten with palpable reverence; the sten bowed and backed away, careful, careful, so very bloody careful. “The relic is reclaimed,” the Arishok said. “I am now free to return to Par Vollen… _with_ the thief.”

Isabela straightened like a shot. “ _What?”_

“Oh, no,” Aveline said, taking a jerky step forward. The stens lining the walls lifted their spears higher in warning. “If anyone’s kicking her ass, it’s me.”

The Arishok ignored her—ignored Isabela—ignored everyone but Aidan. “She stole the Tome of Koslun,” he said, gaze boring into is. “She must return with us.”

His mind was spinning. How to get out of this? How to save the situation as it slowly spiraled out of control? “Sounds like you have something specific in mind,” he said slowly, hedging. Hoping.

“She will submit to the qun and the Ben-Hassrath. More than that I will not say.”

There was a finality to his words that Aidan didn’t care to press. The Arishok was honorable, but his honor was a shield; a castle wall. There was no scaling it. “You have your relic,” he said, meeting honor with honor, determination with determination. “She stays with us.”

Varric hissed out a soft breath. “I’m sure they’ll take that well. Rivaini, you might want to move a bit this way.”

“Aidan,” Fenris said in warning.

“I will not allow you to keep her,” the Arishok said.

There were times when the way forward was a muddled mess, and all Aidan could do was grasp at straws and hope he managed to come out on the other side alive. Running from the blight; coming to Kirkwall; joining the Deep Roads expedition; fighting the dragon.

But here, now, facing the Arishok with the whole world crumbling around them—with everyone depending on him to shepherd them through to the other side—he could only see one path remaining. One course he was willing to take. “And I will not allow you to take her,” Aidan Hawke said, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“Then you leave me no choice.” The Arishok lifted his blade, pointing it at Aidan with terrifying strength. “I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death with her as the prize.”

 _“No!_ ” Fenris said, jerking forward. There was a hiss of breath as Aveline and Varric both grabbed for his arms, keeping him back.

“No!” Isabela gasped at the same time. She grabbed Aidan’s arm, fingers digging into his skin. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel _me_.”

The Arishok didn’t deign to look at her. “You are not basalit-an,” he said. “You are unworthy.”

“You can’t do this, Hawke,” Aveline said—then cursed as Fenris broke free, lit up like a falling star, like an avenging spirit. He phased through their grip and moved to Aidan’s side, sword out, teeth bared, glaring up at the Arishok as if he might lunge for his throat at any moment.

“Fenris,” Aidan said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across the trembling line of his back. _Willing_ him to look at him. “Please.”

“ _No_ ,” Fenris said, but he _did_ look, meeting Aidan’s eyes. There was…Maker, there was so much agony there, so much fear and anger and hurt and formless protective rage. It took everything Aidan had not to reach out for him, to cup his face and kiss away that pain. “You will not survive.”

Isabela let out a sharp puff of breath. “He’s right,” she said. “Don’t be an ass, Hawke.”

Aidan looked between them, wishing he could think of something to soothe their fear. Maker take his hide, he wished he could think of something to soothe his _own_ fear. The thought of facing the Arishok…of battling to the death…had his heart hammering jackrabbit fast in his chest.

The qunari was big and strong and fierce—maybe at the height of his power, Aidan could have faced him and won, but now? Now he was still learning to compensate for his mostly depleted magic. If he tried to take on the Arishok, there would be no contest: he was going to die.

 _But if you don’t try_ , a part of him whispered, _everyone else will die instead._

“Aidan,” Fenris said, low and urgent, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts. Aidan glanced at the Arishok and the stens lining the walls, weighing his options carefully. Carver, Meredith and the rest of the Templars were just beyond those doors. More of Aveline’s men would no doubt be arriving before too long. And come the worst, they could always alert Orsino, Merrill and Anders just past the Keep’s big doors. Theoretically, all he had to do was keep fighting long enough for help to come and then—

No. Fuck. The qunari warlord would never let that kind of betrayal stand. If he faced the Arishok, he would have to see the battle through to the bloody end. Only _then_ would his friends be able to lead a charge against ( _please Maker_ ) an Arishok too injured to kill any of them in the first wave.

 _And if I am very lucky_ , Aidan thought, beginning to straighten as the inevitability of this battle sank in, _Anders will be able to bring me back from the brink of death._ If he was not lucky…

He carefully didn’t look at Fenris.

“I accept your challenge,” Aidan said, voice steady, not betraying even a fraction of his fear.

“ _No_ ,” Fenris said again, the word more a moan, as if he were playing out the same scenarios as Aidan—as if he realized there was no stopping this.

Aidan met his eyes, hating the anguish he saw there. _I’m sorry_ , he mouthed, even as the Arishok boomed:

“Meravas! So shall it be.”

Isabela caught Aidan’s arm again. “If you die for me, Hawke,” she said, low and fierce, “I will _never_ forgive you.”

“If you die,” Fenris murmured, for Aidan’s ears alone, “I will never recover.”

He closed his eyes against the hot brimming of tears, of terror, of determination. He could do this; he had to do this. Everything was resting on his shoulders now. “Then I’d better survive, hadn’t I?” he said with more confidence than he felt. He dropped a hand over ‘Bela’s, squeezing lightly before she let go to join an anxious-looking Aveline and Varric. Aidan turned his full attention to Fenris. “Fenris…”

Fenris glanced over Aidan’s shoulder toward the Arishok, visibly swallowing. Lines of lyrium still lit and dimmed in mesmeric waves, flashing with blue-white light. His shoulders were impossibly tense.

“Fenris,” Aidan said again, stepping in close. He took Fenris’s hand in his, folding their fingers together—shivering at the hum of power licking against his skin. They were close, so close he could hear each serrated breath. He wanted to take Fenris’s jaw between his hands and bring their mouths together, but he wasn’t sure he dared with everyone watching. Those kinds of public displays were up to Fenris to initiate—but this, this was enough. This was more than enough: he could spend the rest of his life threading their fingers together, looking deep into green eyes.

Fenris wet his lips. “I only just found you again,” he said, so quiet the words were almost lost.

It felt as if they were in their own pocket dimension. The Arishok, the stens, the crowd, their friends—everything faded into inconsequentiality. It was just the two of them. It was just this moment.

“I’ll…” _Be okay?_ He couldn’t promise that, and he refused to be a liar in what could very well be his last moments. “I’ll fight as hard as I can for you,” Aidan promised instead.

Fenris looked up at him intently through his lashes, studying his face as if he meant to memorize it. The flicker of lyrium was slowly dying away, fading as Fenris gave himself over to the inevitability of this moment. What other choice was there? If they faced the Arishok and his men now, everyone would die. But with the Arishok critically weakened, and reinforcements arrived…there was a _chance_. They had to take this _chance_.

Aidan sighed, then sucked in a startled breath when Fenris reached up—in clear view of everyone—and brushed his knuckles along his jaw. Fenris rocked up onto the balls of his feet, clearing the last bit of distance between them to brush their lips together. Soft. Warm. _Perfect_ in a way Aidan felt deep down to his bones. His lashes flickered shut and he sank into the kiss as it lingered sweet and raw and longing. Beautifully bittersweet.

When Fenris finally broke the kiss, he didn’t go far. His lips nearly brushed Aidan’s with each word, heat of his breath blooming across his cheeks: “I only wish…” He went silent, pulling back.

Aidan blinked open his eyes, watching Fenris retreat. The defeated curve of his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes…it nearly broke his heart. “You wish?” he echoed, wanting to hear it even as he grew aware of the Arishok pacing just a few feet away, anxious to be done.

Fenris shook his head. “I wish I could have been your bonded Voice again,” he said, simply.

Fuck, _fuck._ That felt too much like a goodbye. That felt… “Me too,” he said, words threatening to break apart. Aidan swallowed and let himself pull the rest of the way back, putting some distance between them. He needed to focus if he was going to be able to do this. “I guess that just means we’ll have to re-form it after the battle is done.”

Fenris jerked forward, fast enough to startle a gasp from him, and caught his hand. “After the battle,” he said, intent— _intense_ —eyes locked on Aidan’s face. “We will be together. Swear it.”

He couldn’t make that promise, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he… “I swear,” Aidan said, words catching in his throat. He squeezed Fenris’s fingers one final time before reluctantly pulling away, turning to face the Arishok.

“All right,” Aidan said, before his courage could leave him. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, staring down his death with a new determination bubbling deep in his gut. He had to make it through this; he couldn’t leave Fenris after all they had been through—after all they had _survived_. “Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two(ish) more chapters to go! I can hardly believe it.
> 
> Meanwhile, Dorian is about to meet his presumed-dead Voice soon. :D


	61. Fenris

It took everything Fenris had not to throw himself into the battle.

The floor was cleared, qunari stens herding the Kirkwall nobles back. Fenris didn’t move, feet firmly planted and hand twitching back toward his greatsword as he watched Aidan warily circle the Arishok. Neither of them had begun—neither of them _would_ begin until the signal was given—and there was still a chance he could end this. There was still a chance he could—

Isabela gently caught his arm. “Fenris,” she said, close to his ear. He shuddered and shook her off, but she grabbed for him again; sharp nails dug into his skin. “ _Fenris_ ,” she said. “You have to move back and give them space.”

“I will not,” he snarled, though even he had no idea what he was responding to. His thoughts kept tumbling one after the other like a rockslide, leaving nothing but confusion and aching loss in their wake. Aidan wasn’t ready for this. There was no way he could _survive._

There was no way—

He could not—

Fenris could not—

He—

Isabela pulled him back, using his moment of weakness, of confusion, of sheer _terror_ to force him out of the battle zone. Aidan cast them a quick look, brows puckered in worry, and it took everything Fenris had not to go flying toward him. This was sheer madness; the whole bloody city could burn if that’s what it took to save Aidan from this suicide run.

“You must have faith,” Aveline said, though he’d never before taken her for a fool. “Hawke is stronger than any of us give him credit for. He’ll pull through.”

“He’s got this,” Varric added, though he didn’t sound anywhere near as convinced. The dwarf edged closer to Fenris, big hands curled into impotent fists as the Arishok nodded once in acknowledgement. He lifted his massive blade. “It’s in the bag alr— _Shit_.”

Fenris sucked in a breath as all of a sudden the Arishok _charged_ —head down, greatsword swinging, faster than anything Fenris had ever seen.

 _Aidan_ , Fenris thought, already lunging to his lover’s defense, but desperate hands grabbed for him before he could get more than a pace away, hauling him back. Fenris bared his teeth, struggling even as Aidan deftly dodged the Arishok’s brutal assault, ducking behind one of the tall pillars and out of sight.

Isabela gave a relieved breath. “Good, good,” she said, drawing blood as her nails sank into Fenris’s arm.

“Hold the fuck still or you’ll get everyone killed,” Varric added without a hint of his usual sardonic control. He wrested Fenris back a full step, usually jovial face carved into lines of worry and fear and fury. He held up a single hand when Fenris would have fought back. “You’ll get _him_ killed. Do you want that? Do you want Hawke’s blood on your hands, because I sure as shit don’t.”

“He needs—” Fenris began hotly, gesturing toward Aidan as he ducked back into sight, barely leaping away from the heavy swing of the Arishok’s blade.

Varric shook his head. “He needs you to stay put is what he needs,” he said. “You know as well as anyone that once he agreed to this, it was locked in. Interrupt now and you’ll only make a mess of it.” The dwarf looked up at him, studying Fenris’s face as if trying to decide whether his words had sunk in. As much as Fenris wanted to rail against the very idea of standing by while the man he loved more than reason fought to the _death_ …he had to admit that Varric was right.

Interference at this point would only result in the Arishok’s men turning on _all_ of them, Aidan included. Aidan would die just as surely either way.

 _And perhaps,_ some small, desperately hopeful part of Fenris whispered as he forced his hand away from the hilt of his greatsword, _he actually has a chance this way._

He had to hope. He’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

Slowly, carefully, by degrees, Varric began to relax. He nodded once as if agreeing to some unspoken pact between them, and Fenris jerked his chin in response. Across the great hall, the Arishok swung his sword so hard it bit into one of the pillars, sending chips of marble flying. Aidan ducked away, a single blade flashing as he darted past, leaving a thin line of blood scoring the Arishok’s massive chest.

“Come on,” Isabela whispered, hands curled into fists. “That’s it, Hawke. That’s it.”

Fenris watched with a slowly sinking stomach. It was clear Aidan meant to wear his bigger opponent down, but Fenris could have told him that plan was doomed to fail. If he was anything like the fog warriors Fenris had known, the Arishok had depths of strength none of them could truly appreciate. He would keep coming and keep coming and keep coming no matter how often Aidan danced away; it took millennia for the tide to chip away a shoreline this strong.

Even still, Aidan darted around pillars and ducked beneath blows. He spun in to slash a shallow cut here or there, barely escaping the Arishok’s reach as he danced just beyond the tip of his blade. Each charge the Arishok made shook the hall, and Fenris’s silent horror grew as he tracked the seconds between each attack.

He was testing Aidan. He was learning his patterns. He was going to win.

“Do not,” Fenris breathed, watching as Aidan waited out the next charge, the next. He was a mage and a farmboy and a bloody hero, yes, but he was no rogue—Aidan may have been taught to wield dual knives, but he didn’t have Isabela’s knack for hiding her next movement, and with each measured assault, the Arishok was reading Aidan like a scroll, learning _everything_. “Do not, do not, do not let him see.”

But it was too late.

From all the way across the hall, Fenris saw the Arishok smile.

He lowered his head, the tip of his horns catching the light, and threw himself into another charge. Aidan shifted his stance, ready to score the qunari with his blades and dance away again, unaware that death was bearing down on him.

“Aidan, _run_!” Fenris shouted, jerking forward with the reflexive need to protect, to defend—to help the man who meant more to him than his own life survive, survive, venhedis, he _had_ to survive this. Aidan didn’t spare him a glance, hyper-focused on the assault, the incoming blow, already shifting onto the balls of his feet as he ducked and pivoted and swung gracefully away…

…straight into the unexpected downward swing of the Arishok’s blade.

He never had a chance.

It all happened so fast, so bloody fast, and yet each moment spun out in perfect, horrific clarity, like a pane of glass shattering in slow motion. The whisper-soft glide of metal into flesh; the spatter of Aidan’s blood across cold marble; the sharp _jerk_ of his body as the blade sank deep, deeper, lifting him from the ground as if he were nothing more than the Arishok’s broken toy, knives clattering from nerveless fingers.

They went tumbling away, each metal _clank clank clank_ impossibly loud in the utter shocked silence of the hall.

For one bloody moment, the whole world was still. Then Aidan gasped in a single breath, wet with blood, and there was screaming, screaming, so much fucking screaming: the room echoed with horror as they all stood by helplessly and watched Aidan Hawke _die_ for them.

As they watched—

As Aidan—

Fenris was dimly aware of desperate hands holding him back again, of Varric and Aveline shouting nonsense words in his face, of stens raising their spears and Isabela giving a bitter cry and. None. Of. It. Mattered. There was nothing in this world or the next that could tear his gaze away from Aidan slumped ragdoll weak on the Arishok’s massive blade, the tip piercing the back of his simple leather armor, rivulets of blood pouring down to drip to the ground below. One of Aidan’s hands fumbled weakly at the blade skewering his side, fingers slipping across blood-slick steel, and he crumpled into a heap when the Arishok pulled back—sliding off the sword that had taken his life with a soft, broken cry.

Fenris watched, his whole body alight with horror and useless power (useless because the lyrium had never brought anything but pain; useless because in the end, it had not been enough to save the man he loved) as Aidan lay within a growing halo of his own blood, one hand pressed to the wound in his side; already, his fingers were stained red and dripping.

The Arishok stepped back, blade dropped onto one massive shoulder, eyes on Aidan’s crumpled form.

“Calm, Fenris, calm,” Aveline was saying, though her words echoed around him as if they were coming from impossibly far away. He could feel himself half-ghosted through their grip, his powers flaring bright before fading, flaring and fading, never quite enough to let him pull free. “What did he call Hawke? Basalit-an? Maybe he’ll allow it to end here.”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell her how very wrong she was; all he could do was watch as Aidan futilely tried to push himself up. His palm, slick with blood, kept slipping, making him crumple again. He was already so very pale. How long did it take a man to bleed out? Maker, he knew, but he couldn’t _think_.

“He _won’t_ ,” Isabela said, speaking the words Fenris could not. She was crying. Tears tracked ugly across her face, and her hands shook where they were splayed across Fenris’s breastplate. The dwarf stood not a foot away, ink-stained hands covering his eyes in horror—the biographer looking away in the very last moments of his hero’s life. “He won’t, he won’t stop. He’ll let Hawke face him on his feet if he can, but he _won’t fucking stop_.”

Aidan was pushing himself up again, struggling to move to his hands and knees. He let go of the gut wound to brace himself, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , there was so much blood. It spilled from his trembling body, the split armor hiding the true extent of the damage. Even as Fenris watched Aidan’s fingertips glow a dull blue and press against the gaping wound, he knew the healing spell wouldn’t be enough. It was too much, and Aidan’s power too small—Fenris had sentenced him to death.

“Aidan,” Fenris murmured, lyrium lines flickering, flickering, before slowly fading away. The word was barely more than a rough whisper, but Aidan looked up as if he could sense Fenris’s eyes on him. Kneeling in a circle of his own blood, struggling to grasp the threads of his lost magic, dead already despite the fact that he still drew breath. The Arishok stood just three paces behind him, sword at the ready, and Fenris could _see_ the moment Aidan reached the end of his shallow mana. He could _see_ the small, pained jerk of his body as the desperate healing spell petered out, blood still pouring from the killing blow, face pale and cold as the marble beneath him.

His eyes, his beautiful storm-cloud eyes, seemed dull at this distance. Like the life was draining from them, and _it was all Fenris’s fault_. If he had stayed, if he hadn’t run in fucking terror of everything this man represented, they wouldn’t be here in this moment: eyes meeting across the great hall, saying their last goodbye with no words between them. If he had only trusted Aidan, trusted this thing—this rare gift—between them, then Aidan would be strong and fierce and _alive_. He would be—

He would—

He—

Aidan’s expression softened, and he managed something almost like a smile. There was blood on his lips, staining his teeth, bubbling up from his throat as he mouthed: _I love you._ _It’s all right. Turn away_. Then, flickering spell dropped, hand pressed gamely to his side again, he pushed himself weakly up onto his feet.

The Arishok lifted his sword, ready to face him.

“Fenris,” Aveline said, as if meaning to see Aidan’s final wish through. _Turn away_. Always, he thought of everyone but himself. Always, he sacrificed, he let himself be made the hero they needed, he bloody _suffered_ , and now he would spare Fenris the moment of his death like some…bloody _fucking_ martyr, and “ _No_ ,” Fenris snarled, shoving Aveline’s well-meaning hands aside. He strode forward onto the battle ground, ghosting through the desperate hands scrabbling for him, and ignored the Arishok as he bared his teeth.

“You dare,” the Arishok began.

Aidan turned, staggering, catching himself against a pillar. His hand left a red streak behind, and there was real fear in his rapidly dimming eyes, as if he cared more for Fenris’s life than his own. The bloody fool. “Fenris, no,” he said. He threw up his other hand, letting the blood flow unchecked as Fenris strode boldly across the marble floor. “Arishok, wait; he doesn’t mean to—”

Fenris reached back for his greatsword, swinging it free. The Arishok snarled at the challenge, shifting his stance to return the expected attack…and stilled when Fenris flung his own sword aside. It clattered across the marble, loud even amongst the stuttered gasps of their audience. He was ten feet away and closing. “I do not mean you disrespect,” Fenris managed, though the words felt wrong in his throat—raw, as if he’d screamed himself hoarse. Funny, he didn’t remember the moment he cried out.

“And yet,” the Arishok said, “you show your contempt by your interference.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Aidan said, one hand palm-out toward the Arishok, the other toward Fenris. No longer supported by the pillar, he began to falter, to fall; Fenris was there to catch him against his body, a single strong arm wrapping around Aidan’s middle. The _noise_ Aidan made was lost somewhere between pain and fear and gratitude—as if he hadn’t expected to be allowed to touch Fenris again. Not in this lifetime. Still, he kept bargaining for his life. “He won’t interfere. He’ll—”

The rest was lost on a stuttery breath, wet with his own blood. He was choking on it, drowning in it; gut wounds like this, Fenris knew, were a death sentence unless truly powerful magic was involved. Within minutes, not even Anders would be able to save Aidan.

Fenris forced himself not to look at Aidan—not to touch him beyond what was necessary to keep him on his feet. He locked eyes with the Arishok and spoke in qunlat with all the conviction he had in him. “There is no honor in killing a man who has been shackled,” he said. “You may as well slit the throat of a chained dog. I know you sensed it; these blades are not the true strength of Aidan Hawke.”

The Arishok studied him for a long, long moment before slowly lowering his sword. “I have sensed it,” he responded in qunlat. “But they are the weapon he chose. Who are you to deny Hawke his choice?”

“I am the man who took that choice from him,” Fenris said. He could feel Aidan’s anxious confusion—could sense the rising murmurs of the crowd as they watched the stand-off. No one could understand what was being said, but judging by the coiling tension in Aidan’s body, his love had some clue that _some_ greater plan was afoot. It was enough, at least, that he kept his mouth shut and trusted Fenris to take the lead.

“And will you right this wrong?” The Arishok’s gaze moved to Fenris’s greatsword, left abandoned on the great hall’s marble floor. Fenris could almost read the big qunari’s thoughts, the way his training had shaped his mind into familiar patterns: facing and defeating Aidan with his chosen blade would be a cleaner end to this messy conflict. It would be the final routing this city needed to carve corruption from its core.

The Arishok assumed Fenris meant to give him his blade. Fenris met his eyes, one arm around Aidan’s waist, the hand of his other pressed over the slippery heat of his gut wound, and let the qunari read a lie in this deepest of truths. “I will right this wrong,” Fenris said, finally turning his head to look at Aidan.

There was so much there to love. Storm-grey eyes, gentle even in these final moments. Dark hair given to curl, sweat-damp against his temples. A handsome face scarred in mirror image to Fenris’s own hated marks, made beautiful because of what they represented: this man had been with him in his darkest moments. This man had saved his life over and over and over again. This man trusted him, loved him, protected him and, most importantly, forgave him.

This man was his heart. His future. His everything.

He was his bloody _soulmate_. And no fear or mistrust of magic could hold a candle to that.

“Heal yourself,” Fenris told Aidan, leaning in to brush their mouths together. He tasted the warm slick of copper, the serrated gasp of Aidan’s dying breaths, the threads of _power_ unspooling between them like grasping vines—like the roots of a tree sinking deep into the earth—that single red ribbon tying them together at last, at last.

It filled his chest and flooded his senses, blooming with the heat of the sun through his body. Fenris didn’t fight it—he _pushed_ into that sensation, giving everything he had to it, willing Aidan to accept this last offering. Willing Aidan to accept _him_ , with all his faults, with all that he had done, with regret and loss and hope and love bursting inside of him.

Aidan made a low noise, trapped deep in his chest, and kissed back _hard_. A single hand lifted to cup the line of Fenris’s jaw, blood slick against his skin as Aidan opened up to him like the parched earth accepting rain. They kissed, and kissed, and _kissed_ for what must have only been moments but felt like the full width and breadth of time itself. He could feel the moment the broken bond bloomed back to life between them—humming and vibrant as if it had never truly gone away.

Fenris gave a sob of relief, swallowed by Aidan’s hungry mouth, as power flowed  between them, in him, through him and back again: an unbroken circuit, a give and take and—

 _Oh_.

He pulled back, heart stuttering in his chest as he felt Aidan smile. Not against his lip, but _inside_ of him, the other man’s emotions bubbling up just beneath his own: warm and right—so very, very bloody _right_. As if that’s where he was meant to be all along.

Fenris let out a shaky breath, feeling the question in his head and responding without words. He charged his markings, the lyrium humming through his veins painful and yet…somehow less than before. Shared between them until that old agony was near-meaningless. _The way you kept me alive during the ritual_ , Fenris thought, and even though Aidan couldn’t read the words, he could sense the question, the emotion, and nodded once.

“What,” the Arishok began, sensing the change in tide. Aidan pressed one last kiss to Fenris’s mouth, lips cool with the beginning charge of a spell. Healing energy flowed through them both, around them, as Fenris willingly fed power into Aidan, letting him tap deeper and deeper as he knitted skin and bone and sinew together as simply as rent cloth. He could sense Aidan’s relief as the pain faded—could feel life flowing strong within him again—and Fenris gave a surprised bark of laughter. _Giddy_ , fingertips twitching as if he were calling the spell himself.

The bond hummed between them with Aidan’s silent gratitude. His _love_. Then, gently, he pulled away, stepping deliberately between Fenris and the Arishok.

“I believe you’ll find us more evenly matched now,” Aidan said, and his voice was strong. Wonderfully, beautifully alive. “Shall we finish this?”

“ _Saarebas_ ,” the Arishok growled, sword swinging down between them. Aidan lifted a hand, and a gleaming blade formed in his fist, glowing blue-white as the heart of a flame—as the lines of lyrium chasing Fenris’s skin. “You use treachery and witchcraft in a battle of honor.”

Aidan slowly pivoted away, drawing the Arishok’s attention from where Fenris still stood. He shone like the heart of the sun, pure white light pouring from his blade and shimmering around him in an arcane shield. His pale skin was still streaked with blood, but there was power in each step. Fenris could feel awareness of Aidan tugging at his own body, his thoughts, his everything—a moon to his tide.

Fitting. Maker knew he would follow Aidan anywhere.

“I use nothing but the sword and shield my Voice gave me,” Aidan said simply, giving the blade a single swing. It hummed through the air, musical; Fenris felt its tug deep inside him, as if Aidan truly were fighting with their united strength. “So,” he added, head tilted to the side. Newly bright eyes locked with the Arishok’s. “Now that the playing field has been evened…shall we finish our dance?”


	62. Aidan

He could still taste Fenris on his lips.

But more than that—Maker, so much more than that—he could _feel_ him, deep inside. A burning coal tucked into his chest, just behind his heart. A frisson of worry and admiration and love so fierce it threatened to steal his breath with each passing moment. It was all Aidan could do not to drop his arcane sword and go swooping back into his lover’s arms: laughing as he caught his mouth, fingers in silver hair, blood smeared against them and not a fucking care in the world because _at last at last at last_.

_This_ was what his mother and father had found together. _This_ was the perfect, uncomplicated joy they’d wanted for him, for poor lost Bethany, for all of their children for so very long. This unfolding warmth in his chest and the iron-clad certainty that no matter what path life took him down, he would always have someone at his side.

He would always have _Fenris._ Fenris. Fenris, Fenris, Fenris.

“ _Saarebas_ ,” the Arishok snarled again, pointing his sword directly at Aidan, dragging his attention back to the fight and away from his newly re-bonded Voice. “This ends now.”

The terrifying specter of his own imminent death no longer seemed quite so overwhelming. The qunari was still massive, and powerful, and _dangerous_ , but Aidan had never felt so strong. And void take him, but he was determined to finish this dance as quickly as he could—the faster this was over, the faster he could have Fenris back in his arms.

(A slow curl of amusement bloomed within his chest, as precious as one of Fenris’s rare smiles, as if the other man could sense his impatience.)

Aidan didn’t look back over his shoulder, though it was a near thing. “This ends now,” he agreed, setting his feet a shoulder-width apart and readied for the charge.

He didn’t have to wait long. The Arishok swung forward with an echoing roar as he had so many times before, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. Clearly he expected Aidan to dart away again—take another cheating, slashing shot at exposed flesh—but Aidan held his ground. He jerked his sword up at the last moment to deflect the blow as it bore down on him. Blue-white sparks shattered from the contact, hissing as they fell around the two of them in a flurry of stars. Aidan could feel the strain in his muscles, but the sword held true: _humming_ with magical energy, smelling cold and bright, like the heart of a lyrium vein.

That coal of awareness that was Fenris flared in his chest, and in response, Aidan’s arcane shield thrummed with renewed power.

He grit his teeth at the heady awareness, meeting the Arishok’s eyes (so close to his own), arms shaking as he held their locked swords between them. The light of his blade cast over their faces, and he could see himself in those flat black irises: _glowing_ with pure energy.

Tapping into that power, letting it thread through his muscles, his bones, his blood and spirit, Aidan braced his heels against cracked marble and _shoved_ out with all his strength. He felt the shockwave more than saw it, sucking in a breath as all at once the Arishok went flying back with a sonic _boom_. He hit a far column hard, cracking it in half. Chunks of marble fell around him as he collapsed at its base, and the watching nobles gave an audible sigh of relief.

Over amongst his friends, watching with their hearts in their throats, Isabella cheered.

Aidan didn’t glance toward them, but he felt Fenris’s hum of approval even as the Arishok slowly began to rise. He shook out his head, dust and bits of debris falling from his long white hair. His upper lip curled back into another snarl. “If I did not have to kill you, Hawke,” he said, moving forward with a steadily threatening stride, “I would bind you myself.”

He felt, more than heard, Fenris’s indrawn breath. He felt, more than heard, the rush of blood in his ears. He felt, more than heard, more than sensed, more than saw the stens subtly drawing closer, as if _they_ meant to make good on their Arishok’s threat.

_Not. Fucking. Likely._

Aidan jerked up a hand and slammed the stens back with a wave of force, crashing them into each other like a line of dominos. Their spears jerked against their heaving chests, holding them back from the fray ( _howling_ with rage) as he and the Arishok slowly circled each other again and again, waiting for an opening. “You really shouldn’t have said that,” Aidan murmured, eyes narrowed on his opponent.

The Arishok lifted his proud jaw. “You are like no saarebas I have ever seen.” He swung his sword in an easy, intimidating circle, the displaced air whistling. “I would forge your new collar and force it about your throat with my bare hands, if it could be so.”

_No._ Sudden light forked from the tips of Aidan’s fingers, arcing into the advancing qunari with deadly precision. He jerked mid-step, huge body jolting as it flared in a brilliant corona about him. It danced between his horns, jagged sparks passing through every inch of him as Aidan splayed his hand wide. “ _I am not a slave!_ ” he snarled with words that weren’t his, voice gone guttural and raw, but he didn’t have time to parse the conflicting bellow of emotion rising like the storm within him. He didn’t have space to learn what was him and what was Fenris as dark clouds swarmed over the Arishok’s head, bolts striking again and again as he slowly closed his fist.

_Lightning_ , he thought, feeling its echo deep in his bones. For the Hawke family, it somehow always came back to lightning.

The Arishok howled, surging forward to swing his blade. Aidan let the arcane shield flare, sparks leaping at the impact—the tempest howling around them, stormclounds swirling over their heads. Lightning bolts crashed down, striking the marble floor and sending debris flying. A bolt struck the Arishok between the shoulderblades and Aidan could _see_ the berserker rage building in his eyes, could feel the hot pants of breath against his cheeks.

He bared his own teeth, unafraid, and spun around the bigger body, sword swinging. It cast a burst of light as it crested through the air, glancing off the qunari’s side and parting his heavy armor with an electric hum. Blood spattered the floor between them and the Arishok gave grunt of pain.

“You could back down,” Aidan said, even though he knew the Arishok never would. This was a battle of honor and it would play itself out until one of them was dead, but still, but _still_ , he had to give his opponent the out. He wouldn’t recognize the man he’d become if he didn’t. “I’ll let you and your men walk free, so long as you leave Kirkwall and never return.”

“I will leave Kirkwall a ruin,” the Arishok said, one hand pressed against his side, muscles trembling as another jolt of lightning hit his bigger form. He staggered, but caught himself, advancing again as Aidan subtly moved back, sword at the ready. “I will cleanse this place of its filth. I will kill the fat dathrasi, and I will return to my homeland with your head. There is no way through but death, _Hawke_.”

He felt the tempest responding above him, around him. Dark curls blew across his eyes and the ends of his green leathers battered against his body as he stood waiting, glowing blue-white sword held in both hands, eyes on his enemy. The stens struggled against the force magic holding them in place and the nobles gasped and clutched at each other, watching with fearful eyes.

Aidan was just barely aware of the doors flying open again, Meredith leading the charge of her Templars. They skidded to a stop with their swords drawn, eyes locked on the controlled chaos of the grand hall.

On Hawke.

He grit his teeth, watching as the Arishok shifted his weight, preparing his final charge. Lightning struck in vicious blows around them, the heavy clouds descending into funnels left and right as Aidan willingly gave himself to the tempest—Fenris burning bright inside his chest; his friends waiting, watching, hoping; _Carver_ lifting his sword and already swinging his way into the heart of the storm, ever-ready to defend his family to the death.

Maker. To the death.

“There is no way through but death,” Aidan murmured, accepting. He braced himself as the Arishok _roared_ , throwing himself forward with the last of his strength.

Later, when he read Varric’s retelling of the birth of the Champion, he wouldn’t be able to remember the specific moment the tide turned. Later, when Fenris was curled around him in their bed, fingers sliding through dark hair and giving a wayward curl a little tug, he’d listen to his husky voice retelling the moment from his own eyes—feeling through their bond the remembered fear and shock and pure _awe_ as Aidan Hawke glowed bright as the heart of a dying star, shining with all the power of a bonded mage and his lyrium warrior Voice.

Later, _later_ , he would hear the stories and feel like they were about someone else—someone far stronger and braver and smarter than him. A true _Champion_.

But in the moment, all Aidan saw with light, all he sensed was the storm, all he felt was the bond humming strong…and a fierce, unstoppable determination to make it to another day. _This is not the end_ , he thought, boring down against that core of power he felt deep in his chest—before letting it _explode_ out of him in a dragon’s roar.

The Arishok _slammed_ against the far wall, giant sword clattering from nerveless fingers. He slumped instantly to the ground, sprawled broken-doll weak and gasping. The arranged stens collapsed to their knees as the Force spell yanked them down, held them, and somewhere, somewhere close, people were screaming.

Or were they calling his name?

Aidan shook his head hard, fighting to refocus past the blaze of fury. Above him, storm clouds roiled and lightning forked. The arcane shield disappeared in a haze of white light. He would have stumbled—he may have fallen—if a hand hadn’t grabbed his shoulder. Aidan turned his head, dazed, hollowed-out from a display of power far beyond anything he had ever felt, and met his brother’s worried eyes.

“Carver,” Aidan said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He could feel Fenris approaching, awareness of him blooming with each step his Voice took. “…bloody hell.”

“ _Bloody hell_ is right,” Carver said. “I’d ask what you were thinking, but I know for a fact you weren’t.”

“…hey,” Aidan protested—weakly. Because, well, it was only the truth.

Fenris’s fingertips brushed down his spine as he joined them. “It is not finished,” he said in a low undertone. He nodded once toward where the dying Arishok lay, blood haloing his body, bones snapped like wayward branches in the center of a storm.

As if in response, the threatening clouds churned above their heads and a cold wind blew through the hall. Aidan was aware of Meredith watching him closely even as her Templars moved to deal with any threat the remaining stens might pose. _Fuck_. Well, he’d have to deal with that sooner or later. “There is no way through but death,” Aidan repeated, mostly to himself. He gently shook off both his brother and his Voice, taking a determined step forward.

“Wait,” Carver said, catching his arm again. His brows were drawn into a frown, and he looked…Maker, he looked like the kid he never really got the chance to be, worried and scared and fighting like hell to hide it behind a scowl. “You don’t have to be the one who kills him. Let me do it.”

Years ago—in another life, it seemed—Aidan would have heard that offer as petty jealousy. _Let me be the bloody hero for once._ Carver the brat, always complaining about being in his shadow. But now, _now_ , he knew better. Carver didn’t want to steal glory for himself; he wanted to protect Aidan the only way he knew how, by taking those impossible decisions from his shoulders. By shielding him the way their mother had always tried to fiercely defend her children, and wasn’t it funny that he’d never noticed his little brother had their mother’s eyes?

Aidan smiled—a real smile, from somewhere deep inside—and shook his head. “I wish you could,” he said honestly. “But it won’t be over until I finish this.”

Carver studied his face for a long minute, then slowly nodded, getting it. “Make it quick,” he said, stepping back. Aidan glanced between him and Fenris before turning toward the Arishok, nothing but grim pity in his chest.

_It’s over_ , he thought, the words echoing in his head with each _click_ of his boots. _It’s over, it’s over, it’s over._

He walked to where the Arishok was still trying to push himself up, palms slipping over and over in the growing pool of his own blood. His eyes were dark but hazy, fixing on Aidan as he stepped in front of him—sword in hand, at the ready.

There was hatred there, and cold acceptance of his fate, and…triumph? Aidan watched, waited, patient as ever as the Arishok drew in ragged, gasping breaths: dying, right in front of him. “One day…” the Arishok managed. He lifted his hand, pointing a single claw-tipped finger straight at Aidan. “…we shall return.”

The words made his stomach clench with instinctual fear, but Aidan kept it off his face as he took that final step forward. Letting the Arishok linger now would be nothing but cruelty; he grit his teeth, _hating_ what he was about to do even as he spun the glowing blade down one final time—slitting the Arishok’s throat.

Blood poured from the gaping wound, gurgling across the keep. Aidan let the blade dissipate into pure light and stood there in silent vigil over his brave opponent’s death. He watched the Arishok’s hand drop. Watched his head fall back. Watched his body begin to go lax, silent, still. And finally, finally, Aidan watched his eyes glaze over as death came for him, swift and merciful.

“Goodbye,” Aidan murmured, staring down at the man who would have seen him—his whole city—burned to ash. Then he turned to glance up toward where Meredith and her Templars were facing down the stens. Aidan let the force magic relax, uncertainty prickling along the back of his neck as they rose one after the other. One of the stens glanced toward Aidan—toward the fallen Arishok—and said something in qunlat. As one, they lowered their weapons and moved toward the keep’s big doors, ignoring the Templars confused and sputtering in their wake.

“Is it…over?” Meredith asked, bared steel dripping blood. She stared after the retreating qunari before turning her cold blue gaze on him.

Aidan felt a stab of fear that may or may not have been his own. She couldn’t have missed his display of power. All his life, he’d been running away from moments like this: the Templars turning one after the other to look at him, swords bared, awaiting her command.

Well. They wouldn’t find him so easy to take to their Tower. “It is over,” Aidan said with as much confidence as he could muster. He lifted his chin, staring her down—staring all of them down. Practically daring them to mount the attack.

Meredith took a measured step forward, sword lifting.

Carver moved to intervene. “Knight-Commander,” he said, both hands lifted in supplication. But before he could make his plea for Aidan’s freedom—for his _life_ —a sudden cheer broke out from the ragged crowd. A single voice rose, ringing through the hall: “The city has been saved!”

Aidan jerked his head, both brows climbing as he met Varric’s gaze—he _knew_ that voice. But others were beginning to follow Varric’s not-so-subtle cue, crying out: “We’re saved!” and “He saved us!” A woman sobbed out a breath, falling to one knee; the lady beside her dropped down to wrap her arms around trembling shoulders, kisses pressed to her hair. They were both crying, Aidan saw. They were—

“We’re saved!” _“The city is saved!”_

Higher and higher the voices rose, drowning out the distant crackle of flames. Aidan looked around at the nobles who’d once been friends, neighbors, companions to his mother, his uncle, the grandparents he never knew. Before his mother had run away with a charming apostate with sea-colored eyes, she’d been one of _them_.

And they were chanting his name.

Carver slowly lowered his hands, looking around with a strange sort of half-smile. Varric smirked, and Isabela gave a raucous cheer. Even Aveline lifted her fingers to pursed lips and whistled once, sharply. Meredith, standing there amongst the rising tide of joy could only _glare_ down at him, fingers curled tight tight tight around the hilt of her sword.

Then, slowly, she reached back to sheath it, still bright with qunari blood. “It appears Kirkwall has a new Champion,” she said, a hardness to her words. The desperate ululations rose ever-higher, until it seemed as if the keep might burst from the tumult.

“The Champion!” someone cried, and, “Hawke!”

Swallowing back growing uncertainty, Aidan reached out a hand blindly. Fenris’s fingers were lacing with his not a breath later, squeezing tight. The touch was like a lightning rod, tugging at everything inside him. Aidan let out a stuttery breath and turned to meet those big green eyes, already locked on his face. _Close_. Close enough to kiss, if he wanted.

Maker, how he wanted.

“Yes,” Fenris said, sensing the direction of his thoughts. Then, his lips quirked, amusement and near-giddy relief twining like grasping vines between them, blossoms of hope bursting crimson-red in his chest. “As the Champion wishes.”

Aidan groaned. “Oh no, not you too,” he said, tugging Fenris against him, one strong arm wrapping around trim hips.

Fenris curled his free hand in the front of his green leathers with a gorgeously raspy chuckle, then slowly dipped down to drag along the gash where the Arishok’s blade had nearly cut him in two. The jagged ends were still wet with blood, and Fenris’s smile faded as he brushed his thumb across the healed killing blow.

Around them, the nobles were still cheering, weeping, losing themselves in the joy of being alive. But in Fenris’s eyes, Aidan could so very easily read the fear that had shaken him down to his core. “I nearly lost—” Fenris began, palm pressed over that knit-together wound.

Aidan gently caught his hand, lifting it to brush a kiss along his knuckles. “But you didn’t,” he said. “You saved me.”

“You saved the rest of us,” Fenris countered, though something about the way he was looking at Aidan—the intensity of his gaze, the haunted, desperate, unending _love_ there—whispered: _you saved me first_.

Oh, _Maker_. Feeling the sheer depth of Fenris’s love was both terrifying and addictive. There was no way he could ever possibly live up to that sort of aching devotion, and yet he planned on spending the rest of his life doing just that. “Well, then,” Aidan managed, swallowing against the race of his own heart. There were people around—milling all about them, noisy and shameless in their relief—and yet they may as well have been alone: standing in the place where their bond had been cemented, Fenris’s hand over his heart and his face a mere breath away. “I suppose we’re all even then.”

Fenris’s lips curved at the corners, his face lifted toward Aidan’s, his cheeks staining an incongruously delicate pink. He would never tire of the gentle thrum of his Voice’s amusement. “You will be hard-pressed to find anyone who agrees with you on that. You realize the whole city will have its eyes on you now, Aidan,” Fenris added. “You saved them; they will not forget that. Are you ready to deal with the consequences?”

_Because if you are not, if you decide to flee, I will follow you to the ends of the earth._ The words were left unspoken between them, but Aidan could _feel_ them down to his bones.

He swallowed hard and covered Fenris’s hand with his own, thumb brushing over his knuckles slowly. “I don’t care if all of Thedas has its eyes on me,” he decided, head dipping down, eyes locked with Fenris’s, letting him _feel_ the certainty unspooling deep in his chest. They were not running; they were not fleeing like thieves in the night. For once in their lives, the Hawkes would not let fear chase them away from their _home_. “Let them look. I only care that _your_ eyes are on me.” His lips quirked. “My Voice.”

Fenris snorted, as if he wasn’t touched, but Aidan could feel the way his heart trembled at the word. “My _mage_ ,” he said with a single lifted brow, a teasing echo of that old venom in the word.

Aidan laughed. “It still sounds like you’re cursing when you say that,” he said. Then, reaching up to brush back a heavy fall of silver hair: “We’ll work on that.”

“Oh _will_ we?” Fenris began, but his words were caught, trapped, lost against Aidan’s mouth as he finally, finally brought their lips together. Fenris sucked in a quiet breath even as he _surged_ up into the kiss, fingers clenching around torn and battered leathers. He kissed back with everything he had, eyes closed in instant, complete surrender: heart opening to Aidan likes petals toward the sun.

_Oh_ , Aidan thought, stroking his tongue into his Voice’s mouth, fingers sifting through the silk of his hair. The heat of his body was intoxicating; the weight of his trust, his love, was more than Aidan could have ever wanted. _This_ was where his life had been leading him all along: a proud and open mage in his surly elf’s arms, basking in the impossible joy he’d somehow found down this strange and winding road.

And it was still far, far from **_The End_**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be the end of Fire Walk with Me, but Aidan and Fenris's story is far from over. Check out [**this post**](https://khirsahle.tumblr.com/post/165404963220/khirsah-is-creating-fiction-patreon) to learn more about exclusive scenes as well as a look at forthcoming Voice-Verse stories, including:
> 
> **Into the Dark:** Carver/Anders with background Aidan/Fenris  
>  **By Any Other Name:** Dorian/Inquisitor with appearances by Alistair, Aidan and Fenris  
>  **Unchained Melody:** Cullen/Trevelyan
> 
> And probably more, because I love this universe so very much. Thank you for reading--your comments brought me so much joy! I hope to see you in the extended universe!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [find that fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133377) by [CheshiNeko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshiNeko/pseuds/CheshiNeko)
  * [Part of Your World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857108) by [threehundredthirtythree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threehundredthirtythree/pseuds/threehundredthirtythree)
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